THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Kenneth  Maogowan 


v\ 


GARSIDE'S  CAREER 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

DEALING   IN   FUTURES. 

GRAFT. 

THE  ODD  MAN  OUT. 


ONE- ACT  PLAYS. 

THE   PRICE  OF  COAL. 

LONESOME-LIKE. 

THE  OAK  SETTLE. 

THE   DOORWAY. 

SPRING   IN   BLOOMSBURY. 


GARSIDE'S  CAREER 


A  COMEDY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


BY 
HAROLD  BRIGHOUSE 


M.S.C 


CHICAGO 
A.    C.    McCLURG   &   COMPANY 

1915 


Printed  in  Qrtot  Britain 


TR- 

6003 


<f 


TO 
A.   N.    MONKHOUSE 


572322 


Amateur  Societies  wishing  to  perform  this  play  should 
apply  to  the  author's  agents,  Messrs.  Samuel  French  Ltd. , 
26  Southampton  Street,  Strand,  London,  W.C.,  from 
whom  permission  must  be  obtained. 


Produced  for  the  first  time  by  Miss  Horniman's  Company  at  the 
Gaiety  Theatre,  Manchester,  on  February  2nd,  1914,  with  the 
following  cast — 

MRS.  GARSIDE        ....          Mrs.  A.  B.  Tapping 

MARGARET  SHAWCROSS   .....       Irene  Rooke 

PETER  GARSIDE      ......  Milton  Rosmer 

DENIS  O'CALLAGHAN      .  Herbert  Lomas 

KARL  MARX  JONES Charles  Bibby 

NED  APPLEGARTH Percy  Foster 

FRED  MOTTHAM Horace  Braham 

GLADYS  MOTTRAM Beatrice  Terry 

LADY  MOTTHAM     ......        Muriel  Pope 

TIMSON  .......  Leonard  Mudie 

The  play  produced  by  Douglas  Gordon. 


GARSIDE'S  CAREER 


ACT   I 

Interior  of  an  artisan  cottage.  Door  centre,  leading  direct 
to  street,  door  right  to  house.  Fireplace  with  kitchen  range 
left.  Table  centre,  with  print  cloth.  Two  plain  chairs  under 
it,  one  left,  one  centre,  facing  audience.  Rocking-chair  by 
fireplace.  Two  chairs  against  wall  right,  above  door. 
Dresser  right,  below  door.  Small  hanging  bookcase  on  wall, 
left  centre.  Window  right  centre.  On  walls  plainly  framed 
photographs  of  Socialist  leaders — Blatchford,  Hyndman, 
Hardie.  The  time  is  7.0  p.m.  on  a  June  evening. 

MRS.  GARSIDE  is  a  working-class  woman  of  50,  grey- 
haired,  slight,  with  red  toil-worn  hands  and  a  face  expressive 
of  resignation  marred  by  occasional  petulance,  dressed  in  a 
rough  serge  skirt,  dark  print  blouse,  elastic-sided  boots,  and  a 
white  apron.  She  sits  in  the  rocking-chair,  watching  the 
cheap  alarm-clock  fretfully.  Outside  a  boy  is  heard  calling 
"  Last  Edishun."  She  rises  hastily,  feels  on  the  mantel- 
piece for  her  purse,  opens  the  door  centre  and  buys  a  paper 
from  the  boy  who  appears  through  the  doorway.  She  closes 
door,  sits  centre  and  spreads  the  paper  on  the  table,  rises 
again  and  gets  spectacle-case  from  mantelpiece.  She  sits 
with  spectacles  on  and  rapidly  goes  through  the  paper 
seeking  some  particular  item. 

The  door  centre  opens  and  MARGARET  SHAWCROSS  enters. 
She  is  young,  dark,  with  a  face  beautiful  in  expression 
rather  than  feature.  It  is  the  face  of  an  idealist,  one  who 
would  go  through  fire  and  water  for  the  faith  that  is  in  her. 


10  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [i 

She  is  a  school  teacher,  speaking  with  an  educated  voice  in  a 
slightly  apparent  northern  accent,  dressed  neatly  and  service- 
ably.  MRS.  GARSIDE  turns  eagerly  as  she  enters  and  is  dis- 
appointed on  seeing  MARGARET. 

MRS.  GAR.  Oh,  it's  you.    I  thought  it  might  be — 

MAR.  (closing  door,  sympathetically).  Yes.  But  it's  too 
early  to  expect  Peter  back  yet. 

MRS.  G.  (with  some  truculence).  He'll  not  be  long.  He's 
always  said  he'd  let  his  mother  be  the  first  to  hear  the 
news. 

MAR.  (gently).  You  don't  mind  my  being  here  to  hear 
it  with  you  ? 

MRS.  G.  (rising  and  putting  spectacles  back  on  mantel- 
piece, speaking  ungraciously).  No,  you've  got  a  right  to 
hear  it  too,  Margaret.  (MARGARET  picks  up  paper.)  I 
can't  find  anything  in  that. 

MAR.  Peter  said  the  results  come  out  too  late  for  the 
evening  papers. 

MRS.  G.  He  never  told  me.  (MARGARET  folds  paper  on 
table.)  I'm  glad  though.  There's  no  one  else  'ull  know 
a-front  of  me.  He'll  bring  the  good  news  home  himself. 
He's  coming  now  as  fast  as  train  and  car  'ull  bring  him. 
(Sitting  in  rocking-chair.) 

MAR.  Yes.  He  knows  we're  waiting  here,  we  two  who 
care  for  Peter  more  than  anything  on  earth. 

MRS.  G.  (giving  her  a  jealous  glance).  I  wish  he'd  come. 

MAR.   Try  to  be  calm,  Mrs.  Garside. 

MRS.  G.  (irritably).  Calm  ?  How  can  I  be  calm  ?  I'm 
on  edge  till  I  know.  (Rocking  her  chair  quickly.) 

MAR.  (trying  to  soothe  her).  It  isn't  as  if  he  can't  try 
again  if  he's  not  through  this  time. 

MRS.  G.  (confidently,  keeping  her  chair  still).  He'll  have 
no  need  to  try  again.  I've  a  son  and  his  name  this  night 
is  Peter  Garside,  B.A.  I  know  he's  through. 

MAR.  (sitting  in  chair  left  of  table).  Then  if  you're 
sure 


i]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  11 

MRS.  G.  Yes.  I  know  I'm  a  fidget.  I  want  to  hear  it 
from  his  own  lips.  He's  worked  so  hard  he  can't  fail. 
(Accusingly.)  You  don't  believe  me,  Margaret.  You're 
not  sure  of  him. 

MAR.  (with  elbows  on  table  and  head  on  hands).  I'm 
fearful  of  the  odds  against  him — the  chances  that  the 
others  have  and  he  hasn't.  Peter's  to  work  for  his  living. 
They're  free  to  study  all  day  long.  (Rising,  enthusiasti- 
cally.) Oh,  if  he  does  it,  what  a  triumph  for  our  class. 
Peter  Garside,  the  Board  School  boy,  the  working  engineer, 
keeping  himself  and  you,  and  studying  at  night  for  his 
degree. 

MRS.  G.  (dogmatically).  The  odds  don't  count.  I  know 
Peter.  Peter's  good  enough  for  any  odds.  You  doubt 
him,  Margaret. 

MAR.  No.  I've  seen  him  work.  I've  worked  with  him 
till  he  distanced  me  and  left  me  far  behind.  He  knows 
enough  to  pass,  to  pass  above  them  all 

MRS.  G.  Yes,  yes  ! 

MAR.   But  examinations  are  a  fearful  hazard. 

MRS.  G.  Not  to  Peter.  He's  fighting  for  his  class,  he's 
showing  them  he's  the  better  man.  He  can  work  with 
his  hands  and  they  can't,  and  he  can  work  with  his  brain 
as  well  as  the  best  of  them. 

MAR.  He'll  do  it.  It  may  not  be  this  time,  but  he'll  do 
it  in  the  end. 

MRS.  G.  (obstinately).   This  time,  Margaret. 

MAR.   I  do  hope  so. 

MRS.  G.  (looking  at  the  clock).  Do  you  think  there's  been 
a  breakdown  on  the  cars  ? 

MAR.  No,  no. 

MRS.  G.  (rising  anxiously).  He  said  seven,  and  it's  after 
that. 

MAR.  (trying  to  soothe  her).  Not  much. 

MRS.  G.  (pacing  about).  Why  doesn't  he  come  ?  (Stop- 
ping short.)  Where  do  people  go  to  find  out  if  there's  been 
an  accident  ?  It's  the  police  station,  isn't  it  ? 


12  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [i 

MAR.   Oh,  there's  no  need 

[PETER  GARSIDE  bursts  in  through  centre  door  and 
closes  it  behind  him  as  he  speaks.  He  is  23,  clean- 
shaven, fair,  sturdily  built,  with  a  large,  loose  mouth, 
strong  jaw,  and  square  face,  dressed  in  a  cheap  tweed 
suit,  wearing  a  red  tie. 

PETER  (breathlessly}.    I've  done  it. 

MRS.  G.  (going  to  him ;  he  puts  his  arm  round  her  and 
pats  her  back,  while  she  hides  her  face  against  his  chest).  My 
boy,  my  boy  ! 

PETER.  I've  done  it,  mother.  (Looking  proudly  at 
MARGARET.)  I'm  an  honours  man  of  Midlandton  Uni- 
versity. 

MAR.   First  class,  Peter  ? 

PETER.  Yes.  First  Class.  (Gently  disengaging  himself 
from  MRS.  GARSIDE.) 

MRS.  G.  (standing  by  his  left,  looking  up  at  him).  I  knew, 
I  knew  it,  Peter.  I  had  the  faith  in  you. 

PETER  (hanging  his  cap  behind  the  door  right,  then  coming 
back  to  centre.  MARGARET  is  standing  on  the  hearthrug). 
Ah,  little  mother,  what  a  help  that  faith  has  been  to  me. 
I  couldn't  disappoint  a  faith  like  yours.  I  had  to  win. 
Mother,  Margaret,  I've  done  it.  Done  it.  Oh,  I  think 
I'm  not  quite  sane  to-night.  This  room  seems  small  all 
of  a  sudden.  I  want  to  leap,  to  dance,  and  I  know  I'd 
break  my  neck  against  the  ceiling  if  I  did.  Peter  Gar- 
side,  B.A.  (Approaching  MARGARET.)  Margaret,  tell  me 
I  deserve  it.  You  know  what  it  means  to  me.  The 
height  of  my  ambition.  The  crown,  the  goal,  my  target 
reached  at  last.  Margaret,  isn't  it  a  great  thing  that  I've 
done  ? 

MAR.  (taking  both  his  hands).  A  great  thing,  Peter. 

PETER.  Oh,  but  I  was  lucky  in  my  papers. 

MAR.   No,  you  just  deserve  it  all. 

PETER  (dropping  her  hands).  Up  to  the  end  I  didn't 
know.  I  thought  I'd  failed.  And  here  I'm  through  first 
class.  I've  beaten  men  I  never  hoped  to  equal.  I've 


i]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  13 

called  myself  a  swollen-headed  fool  for  dreaming  to  com- 
pete with  them,  and  now 

MRS.  G.  Now  you've  justified  my  faith.  I  never 
doubted  you — like  Margaret  did. 

PETER  (looking  from  her  to  MARGARET).  Margaret  did  ? 

MAR.  I  didn't  dare  to  hope  for  this,  Peter — at  a  first 
attempt. 

MRS.  G.  (contemptuously).  She  didn't  dare.  But  I  did. 
I  dared,  Peter,  I  knew. 

PETER  (putting  his  arm  over  her  shoulder).  Oh,  mother, 
mother  !  But  Margaret  was  right,  if  I  hadn't  had  such 
luck  in  the  papers  I 

MRS.  G.  (slipping  from  him  and  going  to  where  her  cape 
and  bonnet  hang  on  the  door  right).  It  wasn't  luck.  Even 
Margaret  said  you  deserved  it  all. 

PETER.  Even  Margaret !  (Seeing  her  putting  cape  on.) 
You're  not  going  out,  mother  ? 

MRS.  G.  (with  determination).  Yes,  I  am.  There's 
others  besides  Margaret  doubted  you.  I'm  going  to  tell 
them  all.  I'm  going  to  be  the  first  to  spread  the  news. 
And  won't  it  spread  !  Like  murder. 

[MARGARET  sits  L.C. 

PETER.  Oh,  yes.  It'll  spread  fast  enough.  They  may 
know  already. 

MRS.  G.  (turning  with  her  hand  on  the  centre  door  latch). 
How  could  they  ? 

PETER.   News  travels  fast. 

MRS.  G.  But  you  haven't  told  anyone  else.  Have  you, 
Peter  ?  (Reproachfully.)  You  said  you'd  let  me  be  the 
first  to  know. 

PETER.  I  met  O'Callagan  on  his  way  to  the  Club.  He 
asked  me.  I  couldn't  refuse  to  answer. 

MRS.  G.  (energetically).  He'd  no  right  to  meet  you.  A 
dreamy  wastrel  like  O'Callagan  to  know  before  your 
mother  ! 

PETER.   He'll  only  tell  the  men  at  the  Club,  mother. 

MRS.  G.  (opening  door).  And  I'll  tell  the  women.  They're 


14  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [i 

going  to  know  the  kind  of  son  I've  borne.  I'm  a  proud 
woman  this  night,  and  all  Belinda  Street  is  going  to  know 
I've  cause  to  be.  (Sniffing.)  O'Callagan  indeed  ! 

[Exit  MRS.  GARSIDE. 

PETER.  And  now,  Margaret  ?  (He  stands  centre  behind 
tabU.) 

MAR.  (looking  up  and  holding  out  her  hand  across  table ; 
she  takes  his,  bending).  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear. 

PETER.   Are  you  pleased  with  me  ? 

MAR.  Pleased  ! 

PETER  (rising).  Yes.    We've  done  it. 

MAR.   You,  not  we.    My  hero. 

PETER.  We,  Margaret,  we.  I'm  no  hero.  I  owe  it  all 
to  you. 

MAR.  (rising).   You  owe  it  to  yourself. 

PETER.  You  inspired  me.  You  helped  me  on.  You 
kept  me  at  it  when  my  courage  failed.  When  I  wanted 
to  slack  you  came  and  worked  with  me.  It  was  your 
idea  from  the  first. 

MAR.   My  idea  but  your  deed. 

PETER  (sitting  centre,  behind  table).  I've  had  dreams 
of  this.  Dreams  of  success.  I  never  thought  it  would 
come.  It  was  there  on  the  horizon — a  far-off  nebulous 
dream. 

MAR.  (standing  right).  It's  a  reality  to-day. 

PETER.  Yes.  It's  a  reality  to  day.  I've  done  the  task 
you  set  me.  I've  proved  my  class  as  good  as  theirs. 
That's  what  you  wanted,  wasn't  it  ? 

MAR.   I  wanted  you  to  win,  Peter. 

PETER.   I've  won  because  you  wanted  it,  because  after 

I  won  I  knew  that  you (Rising.)     Has  it  been 

wearisome  to  wait,  Margaret  ?  I  had  the  work,  lectures, 
study.  You  had  the  tedious  days  of  teaching  idiotic 
middle-class  facts  to  idiotic  middle-class  children,  and 
evenings  when  you  ought  to  have  had  me  and  didn't 
because  I  couldn't  lose  a  single  precious  moment's  chance 
of  study. 


i]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  15 

MAR.   That's  clean  forgotten.    To-night  is  worth  it  all. 

PETER.   To-night,  and  the  future,  Margaret. 

MAR.  (solemnly).   Yes,  the  future,  Peter. 

PETER.  This  night  was  always  in  my  dreams.  The 
night  when  I  should  come  to  you  and  say,  Margaret 
Shawcross,  this  have  I  done  for  you,  because  you  wanted 
it.  Was  it  well  done,  Margaret  ? 

MAR.  Nobly  done. 

PETER.  And  the  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire  ?  I  ask 
for  my  reward. 

MAR.  (shaking  her  head).  I  can  give  you  no  reward  that's 
big  enough. 

PETER.  You  can  give  the  greatest  prize  on  earth.  We 
ought  to  have  been  married  long  ago.  I've  kept  you 
waiting. 

MAR.  That  had  to  be.  They  won't  have  married 
women  teachers  at  the  Midlandton  High  School.  I  couldn't 
burden  you  until  this  fight  was  fought. 

PETER.   And  now,  Margaret  ? 

MAR.  Now  I'm  ready — if 

PETER.  More  if 's  ? 

MAR.  A  very  little  one.  If  you've  money  to  keep  us 
three.  No  going  short  for  mother. 

PETER.  You  trust  me,  don't  you  ? 

MAR.  (giving  hand).  Yes,  Peter,  I  trust  you. 

PETER  (bursting  with  thoughts).  There's  my  journalism. 
This  degree  'ull  give  me  a  lift  at  that.  I  shall  get  lecture 
engagements  too. 

MAR.  (alarmed).  Peter,  you  didn't  do  it  for  that ! 

PETER.  I  did  it  for  you.  But  I  mean  to  enjoy  the  fruits 
of  all  this  work.  Public  speaking's  always  been  a  joy  to 
me.  You  don't  know  the  glorious  sensation  of  holding  a 
crowd  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand,  mastering  it,  doing 
what  you  like  with  it. 

MAR.  (sadly).  I  hoped  you'd  given  up  speaking. 

PETER.  I  haven't  spoken  lately  because  I'd  other  things 
to  do.  I  haven't  given  it  up. 


16  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [i 

MAR.   You  did  too  much  before. 

PETER.   You  don't  know  the  fascination  of  the  thing. 

MAR.  (bracing  herself  for  a  tussle).  I  know  the  fascina- 
tion's fatal.  I  saw  it  growing  on  you — this  desire  to 
speak,  to  be  the  master  of  a  mob.  I  hoped  I'd  cured 
you  of  it. 

PETER.   Cured  me  ? 

MAR.   I  thought  I'd  given  you  a  higher  aim. 

PETER.  And  that  was  why  you  urged  this  study  on  me  ? 

MAR.  Yes. 

PETER.  Margaret !  Why  ?  (Backing  from  her,  and 
sitting  centre  during  her  speech.) 

MAR.  I've  seen  men  ruined  by  this  itch  to  speak.  You 
know  them.  Men  we  had  great  hopes  of  in  the  movement. 
Men  we  thought  would  be  real  leaders  of  the  people.  And 
they  spoke,  and  spoke,  and  soon  said  all  they  had  to  say, 
became  mere  windbags  trading  on  a  reputation  till  people 
tired  and  turned  to  some  new  orator.  Don't  be  one  of 
these,  Peter.  You've  solider  grit  than  they.  The  itch  to 
speak  is  like  the  itch  to  drink,  except  that  it's  cheaper  to 
talk  yourself  tipsy. 

PETER.   You  ask  a  great  thing  of  me,  Margaret. 

MAR.  (sitting  right).  What  shall  I  see  of  you  if  you're 
out  speaking  every  night  ?  You  pitied  me  just  now 
because  you  had  to  close  your  door  against  me  while  you 
studied.  I  could  bear  that  for  the  time.  But  this  other 
thing,  married  and  widowed  at  once,  with  you  out  at 
your  work  all  day  and  away  night  after  night 

PETER.  But  I  shan't  always  be  working  in  the  daytime. 

MAR.  (alarmed).  Not  work !  Peter — they  haven't 
dismissed  you  ? 

PETER.  Oh,  no.  I'm  safe  if  anyone  is  safe.  No  one  is, 
of  course,  but  I'm  as  safe  as  man  can  be.  I'm  a  first-class 
workman. 

MAR.   I  know  that,  dear. 

PETER.  So  do  they.  They'll  not  sack  me.  I  might 
sack  them  some  day. 


i]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  17 

MAR.  But — how  shall  we  live  ? 

PETER  (impatiently).  Oh,  not  yet.  I'm  speaking  of  the 
future.  Don't  you  see  ?  I'm  not  content  to  be  a  workman 
all  my  life.  I  ought  to  make  a  living  easily  by  writing 
and — and  speaking  if  you'll  let  me.  Then  I  could  be 
with  you  all  day  long. 

MAR.  (looking  straight  in  front  of  her).  Have  I  set  fire 
to  this  train  ? 

PETER.  You  don't  suppose  a  B.A.  means  to  stick  to 
manual  labour  all  his  life,  do  you  ? 

MAR.  Oh,  dear  !  This  wasn't  my  idea  at  all.  I  wanted  V 
you  to  win  your  degree  for  the  honour  of  the  thing,  to 
show  them  what  a  working  engineer  could  do.  Cease  to 
be  a  workman  and  you  confess  another,  worse  motive. 
It's  as  though  you  only  passed  to  make  a  profit  for 
yourself. 

PETER.  I  can't  help  being  ambitious.  I  wasn't  till  you 
set  me  on. 

MAR.   If  you  listened  to  me  then,  listen  to  me  now. 

PETER  (pushing  his  chair  back  and  rising).  I  might  have 
a  career.  (Crossing  to  fireplace.) 

MAR  (still  sitting).  And  I  might  have  a  husband.  I 
don't  want  to  marry  a  career,  Peter. 

PETER  (looking  into  fire,  his  back  to  MARGARET).  I've 
already  got  a  local  reputation  as  a  speaker. 

MAR.  Then  make  one  as  a  writer.    I  know  you  can. 

PETER.  The  other's  easier. 

MAR.  It's  not  like  you  to  choose  the  easy  path. 

PETER.  I've  worked  so  hard.  I  did  think  that  now  I 
might  have  some  reward. 

MAR.  You've  won  your  degree. 

PETER  (acquiescent).   Oh,  yes. 

MAR.   And — I'm  ready,  Peter.    (Slight  pause.) 

PETER  (turning).  Yes.  You've  conquered  me.  I'll 
fight  ambition  down.  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  Mar- 
garet. 

MAR.  (rising  and  going  to  him).    Peter,  oh,  my  dear, 


18  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [i 

dear  Peter !    You  make  me  feel  I  don't  do  right.    Oh,  but 
I  know.    I  know.    Speaking's  so  deadly  dangerous. 

PETER.  I  promise  not  to  speak.  I'll  write.  I'll  stick 
to  engineering,  and  we'll  have  our  evenings. 

MAR.   You  make  me  very  happy,  Peter. 

PETER.  When  are  you  going  to  make  me  happy,  Mar- 
garet ? 

MAR.   As  soon  as  my  lord  pleases. 

PETER.   Your  lord  will  be  pleased  in  a  month. 
MRS.  GARSIDE  enters,  centre. 

Well,  little  mother,  have  you  disseminated  the  in- 
telligence ? 

[MARGARET  sits  on  rocking-chair. 

MRS.  G.  (uncomprehendingly).  No.  I've  been  telling 
folks  about  you.  (She  takes  off  bonnet  and  cape  and  hangs 
them  on  door  right.)  Some  of  'em's  green  with  jealousy 
this  night.  They  know  I'm  the  mother  of  a  great  man 
now. 

PETER.   So  you  were  first,  after  all  ? 

MRS.  G.  I  meant  being  first.  Who'd  the  better  right  to 
be  ?  Me  or  a  wild  Irishman  ?  (Crossing  to  dresser  and 
emptying  on  a  plate  the  contents  of  a  parcel  she  had  brought 
in.) 

PETER  (smiling).  And  you've  been  killing  the  fatted 
calf  for  me  ? 

MRS.  G.  (literally).  Oh,  did  you  want  pressed  veal  ? 
I've  got  ham. 

PETER.  I  don't  want  veal.  Food's  not  a  bad  idea, 
though. 

MRS.  G.  (looking  at  MARGARET).  No.  Margaret  might 
have  thought  of  that  and  put  the  kettle  on  if  she'd  had 
her  wits  about  her. 

MAR.  (rising).  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Garside.  We've  been 
talking. 

MRS.  G.  You'd  some  excuse.  Peter's  given  us  some- 
thing to  talk  about. 

MAR.   Let  me  help  now. 


i]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  19 

PETER.  We'll  all  help.    I'll  lay  the  table. 
MRS.  G.     You  don't  stir    a  finger,  my  lad.     Sit  you 
down. 

[PETER  sits  with  amused  resignation  in  rocking-chair. 
PETER.  Oh!    Why? 

MRS.  G.  B.A.s  don't  lay  tables.  Now,  Margaret. 
(MRS.  GARSIDE  takes  white  cloth  from  drawer  in  table  and 
she  and  MARGARET  spread  it.  There  is  a  knock  at  the  door. 
PETER  gets  up.  MRS.  GARSIDE  pushes  him  back  into  his 
chair).  I've  told  you  to  sit  still.  (She  crosses  to  door 
centre  and  opens  it.) 

O'€AL.  (visible  in  doorway}.  May  we  come  in,  Mrs. 
Garside  ? 

MRS.  G.  (genially}.  Yes.  Come  in,  the  lot  of  you. 
[The  three  who  enter  are  working  men  in  their  evening 
clothes.  DENIS  O'CALLAGAN  is  35,  clean  shaven,  an 
enthusiastic  impractical  Irishman,  small  and  dark. 
KARL  MARX  JONES  is  30,  wears  a  formally  trimmed 
beard,  is  precise  in  utterance,  doctrinaire  in  outlook, 
and  practical  in  procedure.  NED  APPLEGARTH  is  a 
man  of  50,  his  age  carrying  sober  authority,  very 
earnest  in  manner,  grizzled  moustache,  grey  hair,  black 
cut-away  coat  and  turn-down  collar,  a  responsible 
leader  deferred  to  willingly  by  O'Callagan,  un- 
graciously by  Jones.  NED,  entering  last,  closes 
the  door.  Each,  as  he  speaks,  shakes  PETER'S 
hand. 

O'CAL.  (visible  in  doorway).  Aye.  Let  us  come  in,  for 
it's  a  great  night  surely,  and  we  fair  bursting  with  the  glory 
of  the  thing  that's  done  this  day. 

JONES.   Comrade  Garside,  I  offer  my  congratulations. 
NED.    Well  done,  youngster.     (Turning  to  MRS.  GAR- 
SIDE.)    Mrs.  Garside,  you've  a  son  to  be  proud  of. 
MRS.  G.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  it  ? 
PETER  (his  demeanour  unfeignedly  modest).    Comrades, 
Mr.  Applegarth,  it's  nothing.     I  tried  my  best,  but  if  I 
hadn't  been  so  lucky  in  my  papers 


20  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [i 

JONES  (interrupting).  You've  passed.  The  others 
were  lucky,  lucky  in  being  men  of  leisure,  sons  of 
wealthy  parents  with  nothing  to  do  but  study.  Don't 
talk  about  your  luck — (bitterly) — the  luck  of  a  wage 
slave.  It's  like  winning  a  foot  race  with  your  ankles 
chained  together. 

O'CAL.  It's  the  mighty  brain  of  him  that  made  him 
win. 

PETER.  Comrades,  don't  give  me  praise.  It  wasn't  I. 
Something  not  myself  got  hold  of  me  and  urged  me  on. 
Injustice  !  Tyranny  !  The  consciousness  of  class.  The 
knowledge  that  in  the  eyes  of  my  well-to-do  competitors 
I  was  an  inferior  animal.  My  hands  are  rough  with  toil, 
the  toil  they  batten  on,  and  so  they  mocked  at  me  for 
daring  to  compete  with  them — a  man  with  a  trade.  They 
know  now  what  a  working  man  can  do  with  his  brain. 
They  laughed  on  the  wrong  side  of  their  fat  faces,  when 
the  list  came  out  to-night. 

O'CAL.  Bravo! 

JONES  (sceptically).  Are  they  all  such  cads  ?  I  thought 
there  were  Socialists  among  them. 

PETER.  Middle-class,  kid-glove  Socialists,  Fabians. 

NED  (dryly).  You're  a  fine  talker,  lad. 

O'CAL.  (to  NED).  And  a  brave  doer,  Mr.  Applegarth. 

NED.  Well,  well,  a  good  start's  half  the  battle,  and 
I'm  not  denying  that  a  ready  tongue's  a  useful  gift. 

MAR.   It's  a  dangerous  one,  Mr.  Applegarth. 

JONES.  Aye,  when  it's  by  itself.  Not  when  it's  backed 
up  by  a  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  Karl  Marx  and 
used  to  expose  fearlessly  the  gross  fallacies  of  the  capi- 
talist professors  of  economics. 

NED  (impatiently).  Let's  get  to  business.  (JONES  is 
resentful.)  Mrs.  Garside's  making  supper,  and  we  don't 
want  to^keep  her  waiting. 

MRS.  G.  That's  all  one.  Food  'ull  be  nobbut  a 
fraud.  We're  too  excited  to  eat  this  night.  Sit  you 
down. 


i]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  21 

NED.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Garside. 

[MRS.  GARSIDE  puts  NED  in  chair,  centre.  PETER 
and  MARGARET  bring  the  chairs  right  down  stage, 
putting  one  right,  near  table,  the  other  left,  JONES 
sits  right.  O'CALLAGAN  at  table  left,  PETER  on  chair 
he  brings  left  of  O'CALLAGAN,  and  MRS.  GARSIDE 
presently  takes  rocking-chair.  MARGARET  stands 
L.C.  well  away  from  the  rest,  as  if  trying  to  efface 
herself,  after  going  off  left  and  returning  without  her 
hat  in  a  moment. 

(Sitting.)  Peter,  I've  said  it  before,  and  I  say  it  again. 
You've  made  a  good  start,  lad. 

PETER.   Thank  you,  Mr.  Applegarth. 
NED.   A  good  start.    And  now,  what  comes  next  ? 
PETER  (going  left,  and  meeting  MARGARET  as  she  re- 
enters).   Next  ?    This  next,  Mr.  Applegarth.    (Taking  her 
hand.) 

NED  (nodding).  So.  I  mind  I'd  heard.  Well,  marriage 
is  a  proper  state.  (  JONES  shows  signs  of  irritation.)  And 
you're  a  lucky  chap  to  have  Miss  Shawcross  for  a  bride. 
I  don't  say  anything  against  marriage. 

JONES  (hotly).  Well,  I  do.    Now  and  always.    In  a  free 

state  marriage 

O'CAL.  (leaning  across  towards  JONES,  PETER  and 
MARGARET  still  standing  behind  near  left  door).  And  have 
we  got  our  free  state  yet  ?  Let  you  wait  to  be  talking 
of  freedom  and  free-loving  men  and  women  till  we've 
had  our  glorious  revolution,  and  in  the  dawning  of  that 

day 

JONES  (leaping  up,  interrupting).  There  must  be 
pioneers.  Some  of  us  must  set  the  example.  (Appeal- 
ing to  PETER  and  MARGARET.)  Even  at  the  price  of 
martyrdom,  of  ostracism  by  coarse-minded  oafs  who 
cannot  understand,  I  call  on  you,  Miss  Shawcross,  to 
dispense  with  the  worn-out  form  of  marriage.  Be  free 

lovers 

NED.    Comrade  Jones,  you're  a  married  man  yourself 


22  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [i 

(JONES  sits  down  abruptly,  silenced),  and  we're  here  on 
business.  And  after  you're  married,  Peter  ? 

JONES  (murmuring  disgustedly).    Married  ! 

PETER  (lightly).  Oh,  live  happily  ever  afterwards.  My 
horizon  doesn't  go  beyond  that. 

NED.  Doesn't  it  ?  Well,  listen  to  me.  There'll  be  a 
by-election  here  shortly. 

PETER.  Why  ?  (PETER  leaves  MARGARET  and  comes 
forward  to  chair  right  of  table.) 

NED.   Ramsden's  resigning  South-west  Midlandton. 

JONES.  About  time  the  old  hypocrite  did,  too. 

PETER.  This  is  news  to  me. 

NED.  I  know  that.  It  was  news  to  us  last  night.  The 
question  is,  do  we  run  a  candidate  this  time  ? 

PETER.  We  ought  to.    It's  a  labour  scat  by  rights. 

JONES.  If  only  the  thick-headed  fools  would  see  their 
own  interests. 

PETER  (turning).  Margaret,  you'll  have  to  give  me 
back  my  word.  (Slight  pause.) 

JONES.  What  word's  that  ? 

PETER.  I've  promised  to  give  up  public  speaking. 
(They  look  at  MARGARET  in  disgusted  protest.  She  speaks 
quickly.) 

MAR.  Oh,  you  shall  speak  if  there's  an  election. 

NED.  That's  right.    All  hands  to  the  pump. 

MAR.    I'll  speak  myself. 

O'CAL.   It's  a  risky  thing  for  you,  Miss  Shawcross. 

MAR.  The  cause  comes  first. 

O'CAL.  Before  bread  and  butter  ?  You'll  lose  your 
job  if  they  hear  of  it. 

MAR.   I  must  hope  they  won't  hear. 

NED.  You're  going  too  fast.  There's  two  things  in  the 
way.  One's  money.  The  other's  a  man. 

PETER.  Surely  the  Central  people  have  a  good  man 
ready  to  fight. 

NED.  No.  We've  got  to  find  the  man,  before  they  help 
us  with  money.  They're  a  bit  down  on  our  chances 


i]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  28 

unless  we  find  a  strong  local  man.  A  local  man  should 
pull  it  off  where  an  outsider  might  fail.  Problem  is  to 
find  him. 

O'CAL.   Faith,  and  we've  found  him. 

PETER.   Yourself,  Mr.  Applegarth  ? 

NED.  I'm  the  wrong  side  of  fifty,  and  I'm  no  speaker. 
Guess  again. 

PETER.   It's  got  to  be  a  local  man  ? 

JONES.   That's  essential. 

PETER.  I  can't  think  of  anyone  who's  big  enough  for 
that  job. 

JONES.  Nor  we  couldn't  neither.  We  gave  it  up  last 
night  and  called  another  meeting  at  the  Club  to-night. 
And  there  we  sat,  the  whole  executive,  no  better  than  a 
parcel  of  tongue-tied  fools,  when  O'Callagan  bursts  in 
and  tells  us 

NED.  Yes,  Peter  Garside,  B.A.,  there's  you. 

[MARGARET  shrinks  back  still  further. 

MRS.  G.  (going  round  to  him).  Peter  !  My  son  a  Member 
of  Parliament ! 

PETER  (repulsing  her).   No,  no,  I'm  not  worthy. 

NED.  We're  the  best  judges  of  that. 

PETER  (firmly).  I'm  too  young.  I'd  be  the  youngest 
man  in  the  Labour  Party. 

JONES.  Someone's  got  to  be  that.  They  need  young 
blood.  There's  too  much  antideluvian  trades  unionism 
about  the  old  gang. 

O'CAL.  It's  a  queer  thing  you  do  be  saying,  and  you 
without  a  grey  hair  to  your  head.  It's  a  queer  thing  to 
hear  a  young  man  making  moan  because  he's  young. 

Mrs.  G.  (appealingly).   Peter  ! 

PETER.  But  I'm (Hesitating  and  looking  from  one 

to  the  other.) 

NED.  What? 

PETER.  I  don't  know.    I  never  thought  of  this. 

JONES.  Think  of  it  now.  We've  to  act  sharp  if  we're  to 
do  any  good  at  all. 


24  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [i 

PETER  (stitt  •wondering).  And  you've  come  officially  to 
offer  it  to  me  ? 

JONES  (roughly).  Of  course  we  have.  Do  you  think 
we're  playing  with  the  thing  ? 

PETER.  It's — it's  awfully  sudden.  When  do  you  want 
my  answer  ? 

NED.  Now.  (Seeing  PETER'S  distress,  more  kindly.) 
To-night,  anyhow.  The  whole  thing  'ull  be  over  in  six 
weeks.  We've  little  enough  time  in  all  conscience  to 
create  an  organization. 

PETER.  And  if  I  say — no  ? 

O'CAL.  Then  one  of  the  murdering  blood-suckers  that 
live  upon  our  labour  'ull  get  the  seat,  and  it  won't  matter 
either  way  which  side  wins,  for  it's  all  one  to  the  working 
man. 

JONES.   It's  you  or  nobody. 

NED  (appealing).  Lad,  you'll  not  say  no.  I  don't 
say  you'll  never  get  another  chance,  because  B.A.s  are 
sort  of  scarce  in  the  Amalgamated  Society  of  Engineers. 
But  I  do  say  this.  We  want  you.  You've  got  a  call  to  a 
high  place  and  a  high  duty.  Are  you  going  to  fail  us  in 
our  need  ? 

O'CAL.  We  want  you  for  another  nail  in  the  coffin  of 
capitalism,  another  link  in  the  golden  chain  that's  drag- 
ging us  up  from  slavery  the  way  we'll  be  free  men  the  day 
that  chain's  complete. 

PETER  (smiling).  And  I'd  be  a  nine-carat  link,  Denis. 
I'm  made  of  baser  stuff  than  the  great  leaders  who  com- 
pose that  chain.  I'm  not  worthy  to  aspire  to  a  seat  by 
their  side  in  Parliament. 

JONES.   There's  such  a  vice  as  over-modesty. 

NED.  Nay,  I  like  you  better  for  being  modest.  You'd 
like  us  to  go  out  and  come  back  in  an  hour  or  so. 

MRS.  G.  Say  yes  to  them,  Peter.  Tell  them  you'll  be 
a  Member  of  Parliament. 

PETER.  Members  of  Parliament  need  electing  first, 
mother. 


i]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  25 

O'CAL.  And  are  you  doubting  that  you'll  be  elected  ? 
You've  only  to  say  you'll  stand,  and  you  can  practise 
putting  M.P.  after  your  name  this  night,  for  you'll  have 
need  to  write  it  certainly. 

PETER  (going  to  MARGARET).  Margaret,  what  shall  I 
say? 

JONES.   You  must  decide  this  for  yourself. 

MAR.  (coming  forward  a  little  reluctantly).  Yes,  Peter. 
You  must  decide.  No  one  can  help  you  there. 

PETER.  Won't  you  tell  me  what  you  think  ? 

MAR.  (firmly).  Not  now.  No  other  mind  than  yours 
can  make  this  choice. 

PETER  (adrift).  But,  Margaret,  you've  always  given 
me  advice. 

MRS.  G.  (jealously).  She  wants  to  hold  you  back.  She's 
never  had  the  faith  in  you  that  others  have.  She'd  like 
to  tell  you  now  you're  not  good  enough  for  Parliament 
only  there's  too  many  here  to  give  her  the  lie. 

PETER.   Mother,  mother  ! 

MRS.  G.  Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say,  put  Margaret  first,  Mar- 
garet who  doesn't  believe  in  you,  in  front  of  all  the  rest 
of  us  who  know  Parliament's  not  good  enough  for  you. 
It's  the  House  of  Lords  you  should  be  in. 

PETER.   I  hope  not  so  bad  as  that,  mother. 

O'CAL.  We'll  be  taking  a  stroll  round  the  houses,  and 
come  in  again  presently. 

PETER  (turning  to  them).  No.  Don't  go.  I'll  give  you 
my  answer  now.  I've  decided. 

NED.  Well.    What  is  it  ? 

PETER.   I'll  stand. 

NED.  (shaking  his  hand).   Good  lad  ! 

O'CAL.  It's  destroyed  I  am  with  joy,  and  me  after 
thinking  he  wasn't  going  to  stand  at  all.  You'll  be 
elected  surely,  and  we  the  nearer  by  another  step  to  that 
great  glittering  dawn  that's  coming  to  bring  peace  and 
happiness  to 

JONES.     Don't    gabble,    Denis.      We've    to    work    to 


26  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [i 

organize  for  victory.     I'm  going  to  the  Club  to  beat  up 
recruits. 

NED.  We're  all  coming,  Karl.  We're  not  going  into 
this  with  our  hands  in  our  pockets. 

PETER  (making  for  his  cap).  Yes. 

NED  (stopping  him).  Not  you,  Peter.  You've  earned 
a  rest  to-night.  You  begin  to-morrow. 

PETER.   Rest !    I  shan't  rest  till  after  the  election. 

JONES.  You've  to  keep  your  strength  for  the  street 
corners.  We'll  do  the  donkey  work.  Clerking's  all  some 
of  us  are  fit  for.  (Glancing  at  O'CALLAGAN.)  You 
can  draft  your  election  address  if  you  want  something 
to  do. 

NED.  You'll  want  every  ounce  of  strength.  Rams- 
den's  done  us  a  good  turn  by  resigning  in  the  summer 
time.  They  can  have  every  hall  in  the  town  and  welcome. 
But  open-air  speaking  night  after  night — well,  look  to 
your  lungs.  We'll  watch  the  rest. 

PETER.   I'm  in  your  hands. 

NED.  That's  right.  Take  it  easy  now.  You'll  have  to 
sprint  at  the  finish.  Now,  comrades.  (Opening  door, 
centre.) 

O'CAL.  Good  night,  all. 

JONES.  Good  night. 

[PETER  holds  door  open  and  sees  them  go,  he,  MAR- 
GARET, and  MRS.  GARSIDE  chorussing  "  Good 
night,"  then  he  closes  the  door,  and  leans  against  it 
as  if  dazed,  passing  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

PETER.  My  God  !  It's  like  a  dream.  I  can't  get  used 
to  it. 

MRS.  G.  You'll  get  used  to  it  fast  enough.  It's  always 
an  easy  thing  to  take  your  natural  state  in  life.  You 
were  born  to  be  great.  (Viciously.)  However  much  some 
folk  'ud  like  to  keep  you  down. 

PETER.  Yes.  I  suppose  I  shall  settle  to  it.  (Coming  to 
chair  right  and  sitting,  MRS.  GARSIDE  is  to  his  left,  MAR- 
GARET his  right.)  In  a  few  days  it'ull  seem  matter  of 


i]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  27 

fact  enough  to  be  Labour  candidate  for  the  division. 
But  it  hasn't  got  me  that  way  yet.  Margaret,  when  you 
set  me  on  to  study  for  my  B.A.,  you  little  thought  it  was 
going  to  lead  to  this. 

MAR.  (slowly).  No.  I  didn't  think  it  would  lead  to 
this. 

MRS.  G.  (sharply).  And  you're  not  well  pleased  it  has. 
Some  people  can't  stand  the  sight  of  other  folk's 
success. 

PETER  (protesting).  Mother,  mother,  without  Margaret 
this  would  never  have  happened  to  me.  I  owe  it  all  to 
her. 

MRS.  G.  (sceptically).  Because  she  told  you  to  study  ? 
It's  a  proper  easy  job  to  tell  someone  else  to  do  a  thing. 
A  fine  lot  easier  than  doing  it  yourself. 

PETER.  Come,  mother,  I  can't  have  you  quarrelling 
with  Margaret. 

MRS.  G.  (sulkily).  What  does  she  want  to  go  and  dis- 
courage you  for  ? 

PETER.   She  didn't  discourage  me. 

MRS.  G.   She  wouldn't  say  a  word  for  it. 

PETER.   She  will  now.    Won't  you,  Margaret  ? 

MAR.  What  do  you  want  me  to  say  ? 

PETER  (surprised).   Say  what  you  want. 

MAR.   Then  I  say  this  :  Go  on  and  prosper. 

PETER  (relieved).  Ah  !  You  couldn't  wish  me  anything 
but  well.  You  see,  mother  ? 

MRS.  G.  (grimly).    Yes,  but  you  don't. 

PETER.   Don't  what  ? 

MRS.  G.  You  don't  see  what  she  means. 

PETER  (confidently  smiling  at  MARGARET).  Oh,  Margaret 
means  what  she  says. 

MRS.  G.  And  more.  She  doesn't  want  you  to  go  into 
Parliament. 

PETER  (puzzled,  looking  at  MARGARET).  Doesn't 
what ?  (Slightly  pausing.)  Speak,  Margaret. 

MAR.  No.    I  don't  want  you  to  go  into  Parliament. 


28  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [i 

MRS.  G.  (triumphantly).  What  did  I  tell  you  ? 

PETER.  But  Margaret,  why  not  ?  Don't  you  see  what 
a  chance  it  is  ?  Take  it,  and  I  go  up,  up,  Fortune,  Fame, 
anything — the  prospects  are  tremendous.  Miss  it,  and  I 
sink  back  to  obscurity.  You  can't  want  me  to  miss  a 
chance  like  that. 

MAR.   I  wanted  to  be  married  to  you. 

MRS.  G.  That's  it,  Peter.  That's  your  Margaret  all 
over.  All  she  cares  about  is  herself. 

PETER  (ignoring  her — to  MARGARET).  Nothing's  going 
to  interfere  with  that.  Nothing  on  earth.  You  needn't 
fear.  We're  to  be  married  in  a  month.  Exactly  as  we 
fixed  just  now.  A  month  ?  It'll  come  in  the  thick  of  the 
fight. 

MAR.    We  can't  be  married  while  the  election's  on. 

PETER  (thinking  aloud,  enthusiastically).  Oh,  but  we 
must.  We  must.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  Weddings 
are  always  popular.  See  what  an  advertisement  it  will 
be. 

MAR.  (quietly).  We  won't  use  our  love  to  advertise  your 
candidature,  Peter. 

MRS.  G.  To  hear  you  talk,  it  might  be  something 
you're  ashamed  of. 

PETER.   It's  throwing  away  a  golden  opportunity. 

MAR.  I'm  sorry,  Peter.    But  I  can't  do  that. 

MRS.  G.  Won't,  you  mean.  You  want  to  see  him  de- 
feated. 

MAR.  (with  quiet  force).  I  shall  work  till  I  drop  to  help 
him  on  to  victory. 

MRS.  G.  You'll  help  best  by  doing  what  he  asks. 

PETER.  I  really  think  you  might,  Margaret.  It's  not  a 
new  plan.  I'm  only  asking  you  to  carry  out  the  arrange- 
ment you  made  this  very  evening.  You  didn't  object 
then,  I  can't  see  what  your  scruple  is  now. 

MAR.  If  you  can't  see  for  yourself  that  it's  vulgar  and 
hideous  and  horrible  to  drag  our  love  into  the  glare  of  an 
election,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  you  to  see  it. 


i]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  29 

PETER.  I  don't  see  it.  Love's  not  a  hole-and-corner 
business.  Why  shouldn't  everybody  know  ? 

MAR.   All  who  matter  know  already. 

PETER.  Only  our  own  circle. 

MAR.   It  doesn't  concern  the  rest. 

PETER  (arguing  hotly).  Except  as  an  advertisement. 
We  shan't  have  too  much  money  to  spend  on  printers' 
bills.  We  can't  buy  hoardings  like  the  capitalist  parties. 
And  here's  a  glorious  advertisement  simply  going  begging. 
We  can  have  it  at  the  cost  of  your  forgetting  some  imagin- 
ary scruple  of  delicacy.  Elections  aren't  delicate  affairs. 

MAR.   No.    But  our  love  is. 

MRS.  G.  If  your  love's  so  finicky  it  can't  stand  day- 
light, it's  not  worth  much.  A  love  like  that  'ull  not  last 
long. 

PETER.    You're  right  there,  mother. 

MRS.  G.  (eagerly).  She  wants  to  hold  you  back,  she'd 
like  to  see  you  tied  to  engineering  all  your  life.  For  why  ? 
She's  wild  because  you're  going  up  in  the  world.  She 
knows  she's  not  fit  to  go  up  with  you,  so  she's  trying 
to  keep  you  where  you  are.  That's  why  she  refuses  to 
help. 

MAR.   I  don't  refuse  to  help.    I'm  going  to  help. 

PETER.  Yes,  anything  except  the  only  way  that's  help- 
ful. I  don't  want  other  help. 

MAR.  You  can't  go  without  it.  You  can't  stop  me 
working  for  the  cause. 

MRS.  G.  Yes,  and  you'd  work  harder  for  any  other 
candidate  than  Peter.  I  know  you. 

MAR.   Not  harder,  but  certainly  with  a  better  will. 

PETER  (soberly).  Margaret,  you're  standing  in  my  way. 
Oh,  I  owe  a  lot  to  you.  I  don't  forget  it.  But .  .  .  But  a 
man  has  to  rely  on  his  own  judgment.  If  I  took  your 
advice,  I'd  wreck  my  career.  You've  always  underrated 
me.  You  thought  I  wouldn't  get  my  degree.  I  did  get 
my  degree.  And  I'll  prove  you  wrong  again.  I'll  be  M.P. 
before  six  weeks  are  out. 


30  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [i 

MAR.   I  say  again :  Go  on  and  prosper. 

MRS.  G.  And  she  means  you  can  prosper  without  her, 
and  a  good  riddance  too,  I  say. 

PETER.    Do  you  mean  that,  Margaret  ? 

MAR.  I  think  we'll  wait  a  little,  Peter.  You've  other 
things  to  think  of  now. 

PETER.   You  said  that  when  I  started  studying. 

MAR.  I  say  it  again  now  when  you're  starting  election- 
eering. 

PETER  (losing  temper).  And  after  that  there'll  be  some- 
thing else  and  something  after  that,  and  so  on,  till  Dooms- 
day 'ull  see  us  still  unmarried.  I  begin  to  think  you  never 
mean  to  marry  me. 

MRS.  G.   It's  about  time  you  did  begin  to  think  it,  too. 

MAR.  (suffering).  Oh,  Peter,  why  won't  you  understand  ? 

PETER.  Because  you're  not  reasonable.  (Slight 
pause.)  Tell  me  this.  Do  you  think  I'm  not  fit  for 
Parliament  ? 

MAR.  (painfully).  Yes,  dear.    I  do. 

PETER  (roughly).  Don't  call  me  dear.  If  that's  the  way 
you  talk,  you're  not  dear  to  me. 

MRS.  G.  I've  seen  it  for  long  enough — her  thinking 
meanly  of  you  and  the  rest  of  us  knowing  different,  and 
you  for  ever  hearkening  to  her  as  if  she  was  Almighty 
God. 

MAR.  (facing  MRS.  GARSIDE).   I  won't  stand  this. 

MRS.  G.  You've  got  to.    You're  shown  up  now. 

PETER.  This  means  you've  no  faith  in  me,  Margaret. 
And  if  you've  no  faith,  you've  no  love 

MAR.  (despairingly).  Peter,  you  mustn't  say  such  things. 

MRS.  G.  You  can't  get  away  from  the  truth,  my  girl. 

PETER.  I  say  them  because  they're  true.  It's  for  you 
to  prove  me  wrong. 

MAR.    How  ?    Tell  me  how  ? 

PETER.  Marry  me  in  the  month  as  we  arranged,  and 
I'll  go  down  on  my  knees  and  ask  your  pardon. 

MAR,     I  can't  marry  you  in  a  month. 


i]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  81 

PETER.  Then  it's  true.  You  don't  love  me.  You 
don't  believe  in  me. 

MAR.     I — I  think  I'll  go  home. 

[Exit  MARGARET  right,  returning  quickly  with  her  Jiat, 
which  she  puts  on.  PETER  watches  her  go  and  meets 
her  as  she  returns. 

PETER  (appealingly).   Margaret ! 

MAR.  No,  Peter.    I  can't  do  it. 

PETER  (acquiescing).   Then — good-bye. 

MAR.  I  shall  see  you  often  at  the  Committee  Rooms. 
Don't  tell  me  I  mustn't  work  for  you. 

PETER.  If  it  was  only  for  myself  I  wouldn't  have  your 
help  at  any  price.  But,  as  you  told  us,  you'll  not  be  work- 
for  me  but  for  the  cause.  (Grandiloquently.)  In  the  name 
of  the  cause  I  accept  your  help. 

MAR.  (simply).  Thank  you,  Peter.  I  shall  work  hard. 
Good  night,  Mrs.  Garside. 

[MRS.  GARSIDE  makes  no  sign.  PETER  moves  towards 
MARGARET,  checks  himself,  and  she  goes  out. 

MRS.  G.  That's  a  good  job  done. 

PETER.   Don't  talk  about  it,  mother,  please. 

MRS.  G.  You  can  look  higher  than  a  school  marm  now 
you're  going  into  Parliament. 

PETER  (distressed).   Please,  please  ! 

MRS.  G.  (cheerfully).  Oh,  well,  we'll  have  supper  and 
chance  it. 

PETER.  Have  yours.  I  only  want  this  end  of  the 
table.  (Collecting  paper,  ink,  and  pen  and  sitting  at  right 
end  of  table.)  I  must  do  something  to  forget. 

MRS.  G.  What  are  you  doing  ? 

PETER.  Drafting  my  address.  Hand  me  down  that 
dictionary,  will  you  ?  (Indicating  hanging  shelf.) 

MRS.  G.  (getting  large  dictionary  from  shelf  and  putting 
on  table  near  him.)  You  don't  want  a  dictionary.  It's 
all  there  in  that  brain  of  yours. 

PETER.  A  dictionary's  useful.  People  like  to  read 
long  words.  It  looks  erudite,  and  costs  nothing. 


32  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [i 

MRS.  G.  They'll  never  understand  dictionary  words, 
Peter.  (Poking  fire.) 

PETER.  That  doesn't  matter.  They'll  be  impressed. 
(Dipping  pen  and  bending.)  Don't  disturb  me  while  I 
write. 


CURTAIN. 


ACT   II 

Ornate  drawing-room  in  SIR  JASPER  MOTTRAM'S  house. 
Centre  is  a  large  window  giving  access  to  a  balcony.  It  is, 
however,  evening,  and  the  drawn  curtains  conceal  the  balcony. 
Door  left.  Light  wall  colouring  and  carpet.  Fireplace  right. 
No  fire.  Chesterfield  right  centre.  Light  arm-chairs  left  and 
left  centre.  Japanese  screen  before  fireplace.  Large  Japanese 
jar  in  left  corner. 

GLADYS  MOTTRAM  is  sitting  on  the  Chesterfield  reading  a 
novel.  She  is  in  evening  dress,  a  pretty,  flirtatious,  empty- 
headed  girl,  bored  with  her  daily  life  and  seizing  eagerly  on 
any  distraction.  FREDDIE  MOTTRAM,  her  brother,  is  30, 
and  conceals  real  kindness  behind  his  flippant  manner.  He 
doesn't  go  deep  and  he  likes  money,  but  he  is  on  good  terms 
with  the  world  and  doesn't  mind  a  little  trouble  or  even  un- 
conventionality  to  put  the  world  on  good  terms  with  him.  He 
is  fair,  with  fair  moustache,  and  his  figure  is  that  of  the 
ex-athlete  who  could  still  give  a  good  account  of  himself. 
He  leans  back  in  the  arm-chair,  yawning  and  consulting 
his  watch,  glancing  at  GLADYS,  entrenched  behind  her 
book,  again  yawning  and  making  up  his  mind  to  address 
her. 

FRED,  (nursing  a  grievance).  I  say,  Gladys,  how  much 
longer  do  you  expect  me  to  wait  ? 

GLAD,  (looking  up  from  her  book,  calmly).  Till  Mr.  Gar- 
side  goes. 

FRED.  And  he  hasn't  come  yet.  Just  when  I  particu- 
larly want  to  go  out,  too.  It's  all  very  well  for  the 
governor  to  be  civil  to  him.  He's  got  to.  But  I  do 
bar  doing  the  honours  myself  to  a  horny-handed  son 
of  toil. 

c  33 


84  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [n 

GLAD,  (putting  her  book  beside  her,  face  downwards.  With 
an  air  of  resignation).  You  don't  particularly  want  to  go 
out.  You're  only  going  to  the  Club. 

FRED,  (seriously).  But  I  particularly  want  to  go  to  the 
Club. 

GLAD.    You  go  every  night. 

FRED.  Every  night  isn't  my  lucky  night.  Thursday 
is.  I  always  win  on  Thursdays.  The  governor  ought  to 
do  his  own  dirty  work.  He's  Mayor,  not  I.  Cutting  his 
duty,  I  call  it,  being  away  to-night  just  when  I'm  bound 
to  make  money. 

GLAD.  He'll  be  here  when  he's  ready.  He's  going  to 
be  late  on  purpose. 

FRED.  Very  much  on  purpose.  Yes.  There  you've 
got  it.  He  had  Rankin  and  Beverley  here  to  dinner 
together.  Quite  right,  too.  Rankin's  a  Radical  rotter, 
but  he's  a  gentleman.  When  it  comes  to  Garside  the 
governor  shirks  and  leaves  it  to  us.  Why  on  earth 
he  wants  to  ask  a  Labour  candidate  here  at  all  simply 
floors  me. 

GLAD.    He  has  to  treat  them  all  alike. 

FRED.  Then  he  should  have  had  Garside  to  dinner, 
and  given  us  some  sport  over  the  asparagus. 

GLAD.    That  wasn't  necessary. 

FRED.  And  this  isn't  necessary.  Rankin  and  Beverley, 
by  all  means.  They're  probables.  But  why  waste  time 
on  an  outsider  like  Garside  ?  It'll  only  swell  his  head  to 
be  our  guest. 

GLAD.    He  isn't  an  outsider. 

FRED.  You  don't  say  the  governor's  taking  him 
seriously. 

GLAD.    He's  taking  him  very  seriously. 

FRED  (horrified).    Oh,  I  say.    No.    It's  absurd. 

GLAD.  Garside's  making  headway  fast.  He's  a  fine 
speaker,  and  he's  popular. 

FRED.  A  mechanic  a  fine  speaker  !  Rot !  Who  says 
so? 


n]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  85 

GLAD.   I  for  one.    I've  heard  him. 

FRED.   You  have  !    It's  a  quaint  taste. 

GLAD.  More  than  once. 

FRED,  (sarcastically).  Making  a  hobby  of  it?  (Seri- 
ously.) Where  ? 

GLAD.   In  the  street. 

FRED,  (genuinely  shocked).  You've  been  listening  to  a 
tub-thumper  at  street  corners  ?  I  say,  hang  it,  Gladys, 
there  are  things  people  don't  do. 

GLAD.   The  first  time  was  an  accident. 

FRED.   The  second  was  a  crime. 

GLAD,  (rising,  and  speaking  enthusiastically).  I  went 
again  because  I  admired  the  man.  I  liked  to  hear  that 
ringing  voice,  to  be  one  of  that  wild  enthusiastic  crowd 
bewitched  by  the  spell  of  his  personality.  He  saw  me 
too.  I  stood  at  the  back  of  the  crowd,  but  he  saw  me  and 
he  spoke  for  me  .  .  for  me.  Our  eyes  met,  and  I  know 
he  spoke  for  me  alone. 

FRED,  (sitting  and  leaning  back,  fanning  his  face).  Why 
didn't  you  warn  me  ?  I  didn't  know  I  was  to  meet  my 
future  brother-in-law  to-night. 

GLAD.  Don't  be  absurd,  Freddie.  (Sitting  again.) 
It's  because  he's  doing  so  well  that  father  asked  him  here, 
and  we've  to  keep  him  as  long  as  possible. 

FRED,  (looking  at  watch).  My  ducats,  oh,  my  ducats ! 
Why? 

GLAD.  Because  every  moment  that  he's  prevented 
from  speaking  is  a  loss  to  him  and  a  gain  to  us.  As  Mayor, 
father's  supposed  to  be  neutral,  at  the  election,  so  that 
gives  him  an  excuse  to  entertain  Garside  and  spoil  his 
speaking  for  one  night,  anyhow. 

FRED.   That's  a  bit  tricky. 

GLAD.   All's  fair  in  war. 

FRED.  And  love,  Gladys,  and  love. 

GLAD.   Don't  be  sillier  than  you  can  help. 

FRED.  Besides,  they'll  have  others  to  keep  the  ball 
rolling  while  he's  here. 


36  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [n 

GLAD.  There's  a  firebrand  of  a  woman  speaking  every 
night  who's  about  as  popular  as  he  is. 

FRED,  (interested).   A  woman  ?    Is  she  good-looking  ? 

GLAD.   I  don't  know. 

FRED.  You  wouldn't.     You'd  only  eyes  for  him. 

GLAD.  She  doesn't  speak  on  the  same  platforms  with 
him. 

FRED.  Don't  blame  her,  either.  Only  one  star  turn  to 
each  show,  eh  ? 

GLAD.  Anyhow,  father's  instructions  are  to  keep 
Garside  here  till  he  comes  home,  if  we  can. 

FRED.  All  right.  Tell  Timson  to  lock  him  up  in  the 
pantry  and  keep  him  there  till  the  election's  over. 

GLAD.  Afraid  that's  too  crude,  Freddie.  I'll  do  my 
best  to  hold  him  for  to-night. 

FRED.  Oh  ?  Be  careful.  Flirtation's  a  risky  game 
even  when  both  sides  know  the  rules.  It's  always  apt  to 
end  in  marriage  ;  and  that  chap  won't  know  the  rules. 
Much  better  lock  him  up. 

GLAD.   Kidnapping's  out  of  date. 

FRED.  Oh,  you  want  him  to  get  in.  He's  fascinated 
you. 

GLAD,  (tartly).  That's  doubtless  why  I've  been  canvass- 
ing for  Mr.  Beverley  all  day,  while  you've  been  watching 
a  cricket  match. 

FRED.  Hang  it,  Glad,  someone's  got  to  support 
county  cricket.  I  did  a  jolly  plucky  thing  to-day.  Wore 
old  Beverley's  colours  and  nearly  got  mobbed  in  the  bar 
by  a  beastly  gang  of  Radicals. 

GLAD.  You  shouldn't  go  into  bars. 

FRED.  And  you  shouldn't  hang  about  street  corners 
with  a  set  of  Socialists.  Serve  you  right  if  you'd  got 
your  pocket  picked.  I'd  rather  be  an  open  drinker  than 
a  secret  revolutionist  any  day. 

[Enter  LADY  MOTTRAM.  She  is  white-haired  and 
authoritative  in  manner,  dressed  in  a  high  evening 
gown,  too  freely  jewelled.  FREDDIE  rises. 


n]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  37 

FRED.   Hullo,  mater.    Any  luck  ? 
LADY  M.    If  you  mean  by  that  expression  has  Mr. 
Garside  arrived,  he  has  not.    (Crosses  to  Chesterfield.) 

FRED,  (looking  at  watch).  Well,  he  may  be  an  upright 
youth,  but  punctuality  isn't  amongst  his  virtues. 

LADY  M.  (standing  by  Chesterfield).  It's  just  as  well.  I 
have  a  disagreeable  duty  to  perform.  (Sitting,  very 
dignified.) 

FRED,  (lightly).  Hope  it'll  keep  fine  for  you. 
LADY  M.   Ring  the  bell,  Freddie.     (FREDDIE  'crosses  to 
fireplace  and  rings.)     Thank  you. 

FRED.  By  Jove,  Gladys,  someone's  going  to  catch  it. 
Mark  that  awe-inspiring  frown.  I'm  getting  frit. 

Enter  TIMSON. 

LADY  M.   Show  the  young  person  in  here,  Timson. 
TIMSON.  Yes,  my  lady. 

[Exit  TIMSON.    FREDDIE  is  following  with  exaggerated 

fear. 

LADY  M.  Don't  go,  Freddie. 

FRED.  Oh,  but  I  do  hate  thunderstorms  when  I've  no 
umbrella. 

LADY  M.  I  want  to  be  certain  you're  here  when  Mr. 
Garside  comes. 

FRED.  Mayn't  a  man  have  a  cigarette  ?  I'll  come  back. 
(TIMSON  opens  door  as  FREDDIE  comes  to  it.  Looking  off 
FREDDIE  sees  MARGARET,  and  stops  short.)  By  Jove,  I'll 
stay. 

TIMSON  (with  marked  disapproval).  Miss  Shawcross. 
[Enter  MARGARET  dressed  as  ACT  I,  with  the  addition 
of  a  light  coat,  without  gloves.  LADY  M.  and  GLADYS 
remain  seated.  FRED,  stands  right,  well  behind  the 
Chesterfield.  MARGARET  stands  left,  in  some  con- 
fusion. Exit  TIMSON. 

MAR.  You  ...  I  understand  you  want  to  see  me, 
Lady  Mottram. 

LADY  M.  (immensely  superior).  Yes.  Your  name  is 
Shawcross  ?  Margaret  Shawcross  ? 


38  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [n 

MAR.  Yes. 

LADY  M.  Fifteen,  Rosalie  Street  ? 

MAR.  Yes. 

LADY  M.  Ah  !  (With  patronising  kindliness.)  I've 
sent  for  you,  Miss  Shawcross,  to  give  you  a  warning — a 
friendly  warning.  Er — you  may  sit  down. 

MAR.  (sitting  stiffly,  but  not  awkwardly,  left).     Thank 

you. 

LADY  M.  You  are  an  assistant -teacher  at  the  Midland- 
ton  Girls'  High  School  ? 

MAR.  I  am. 

LADY  M.  You're  aware  that  I  am  a  member  of  the 
Governing  Board  ? 

MAR.  Yes. 

LADY  M.  (expansively).  In  fact,  I  may  say  I  have  a 
preponderating  influence.  Bear  that  fact  in  mind,  Miss 
Shawcross.  (MARGARET  inclines  her  head.)  We  don't 
enquire  offensively  into  the  conduct  of  our  staff  out  of 
school  hours.  So  long  as  they  behave  themselves  re- 
spectably we  are  satisfied.  Does  your  experience  confirm 
that? 

MAR.  Quite. 

LADY  M.  You've  suffered  no  inquisition  into  your 
private  life  ?  No  interference  into  your  personal  affairs  ? 

MAR.  None. 

LADY  M.  (nodding  grimly).  Ah  !  Then  you'll  do  us 
the  justice  to  acknowledge  that  we  don't  move  except  in 
extreme  cases.  I  regret  to  say  yours  is  an  extreme  case, 
Miss  Shawcross. 

MAR.  (rising).   Mine  ! 

[FREDDIE'S  attitude  conveys  interest  plus  pity,  GLADYS'S 
unrelieved  contempt. 

LADY  M.  (severely).  Yours.  I  don't  complain  of  your 
holding  heterodox  views.  It  is  a  regrettable  fact  that 
many  young  women  of  to-day  hold  alarmingly  lax  opinions. 
But  they  keep  their  views  to  themselves.  They  confine 
them  to  their  own  circle.  It  has  been  left  to  you  to 


n]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  39 

proclaim  publicly  at  street  corners  your  loose  morality, 

MAR.  You'll  pardon  me.  I've  done  nothing  of  the 
sort. 

LADY  M.  I'm  grievously  misinformed  if  you're  not  a 
self-confessed  Socialist. 

MAR.   You  spoke  of  loose  morality. 

LADY  M.  (curtly).  Same  thing.  Do  you  admit  to  pub- 
licly advocating  Socialism  ? 

MAR.  Certainly.  You  publicly  advocate  Tariff  Reform. 
Why  shouldn't  I  advocate  Socialism  ? 

LADY  M.  The  cases  are  hardly  parallel.  The  one  is 
respectable,  the  other  isn't.  However,  you're  not  here  to 
argue  with  me.  You  have  to  earn  your  living.  An 
orphan,  I  understand. 

MAR.  Yes. 

LADY  M.  You've  the  more  reason  to  walk  warily. 
(Kindly.)  Now,  you're  young,  and  you're  ignorant,  and 
I'm  ready  to  overlook  this.  I  could  have  you  dismissed 
at  once,  but  I've  no  doubt  you'll  be  a  good  girl  after  this 
little  talk.  Good  night,  Miss  Shawcross. 

MAR.  Good  night,  Lady  Mottram.  (She  moves  towards 
door.  FREDDIE  opens  it,  she  turns  back.)  No,  I  won't  go 
like  this.  You'd  have  the  right  to  tell  me  I  deceived  you. 
(FREDDIE  closes  door  and  stands  centre.)  I  can't  take  your 
warning,  Lady  Mottram.  (LADY  M.  rises.)  I  dare  say 
it's  kindly  meant.  I  thank  you  for  that.  But  as  for  stop- 
ping speaking,  working  heart  and  soul  for  the  cause  that's 
all  in  all  to  me,  I  can't  do  that. 

LADY  M.  Can't  ?  Won't,  you  mean.  This  is  defiance, 
Miss  Shawcross.  You'd  better  take  care. 

MAR.  (splendidly  contemptuous}.  Care  !  Life  isn't  all 
taking  care. 

LADY  M.  (calmly).  It's  really  very  rash  of  you.  Your 
livelihood's  at  stake.  I  say  nothing  about  your  immortal 
soul,  which  is  endangered  if  it's  not  already  lost. 

MAR.   Suppose  you  leave  my  soul  out,  Lady  Mottram. 


40  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [n 

My  employment  is  in  your  hands.  You  have  the  power 
to  take  that  from  me. 

LADY  M.  Persist  in  your  defiance  and  I  shall  be  com- 
pelled to  exercise  that  power. 

FRED,  (to  MAR.).  Speaking  from  long  and  intimate 
acquaintance  with  my  mother,  I  should  just  like  to 
interpolate  the  remark  that  she  invariably  means  what  she 
says. 

MAR.  (coldly).  Thank  you.  I  haven't  worked  for  Social- 
ism without  knowing  the  risks  I  took.  There's  nothing 
unusual  in  this.  Since  Socialism's  been  the  bogey  of  the 
employing  class,  dismissal  for  Socialists  is  an  everyday 
occurrence. 

LADY  M.  (mildly  angered).  This  is  too  much.  To 
associate  me  with  cowardly  employers  who  abuse  their 
power,  when  my  only  object  is  to  secure  respectability  in 
our  teaching  staff. 

MAR.  Oh,  they  all  do  it  for  excellent  motives.  How 
long  have  I,  Lady  Mottram  ? 

LADY  M.  Till  Miss  Allinson  can  replace  you. 

MAR.  Till  then  I  can  go  on  contaminating  my  pupils  ! 
However,  to  replace  me  won't  take  an  hour.  Unemployed 
teachers  aren't  scarce. 

LADY  M.  (viciously).  You  are  dismissed  for  gross  mis- 
conduct, and  the  fact  will  be  stated  on  any  reference  you 
ask  for. 

FRED.  I  say,  mater,  that's  a  bit  rough.  (MARGARET 
turns  to  door.  FREDDIE  stands  intercepting  her.)  Give  the 
girl  a  chance. 

LADY  M.   Mind  your  own  business,  Freddie. 

FRED.  Hang  it,  how  do  you  know  she  won't  starve  ? 

LADY  M.   Her  sort  don't  starve. 

GLAD.  She's  wearing  an  engagement  ring.  Someone's 
ready  to  keep  her. 

MAR.  (quietly).   My  engagement's  broken  off. 

LADY  M.  Then  why  do  you  carry  a  lie  on  your 
finger  ? 


n)  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  41 

MAR.  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  take  it  off — till  now. 
(Putting  ring  in  coat-pocket.) 

FRED.  You're  in  a  bit  of  a  hole,  you  know. 

LADY  M.  Gladys,  if  Freddie's  going  to  be  sympathetic 
to  this  young  person,  you  and  I  had  better  retire.  Con- 
versations between  young  men  and  persons  of  her  class 
are  not  carried  on  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 

[LADY  M.  and  GLADYS  go  out,  FREDDIE  opening  door. 
MARGARET  is  following.    He  closes  the  door. 

FRED.  One  moment,  Miss  Shawcross. 

MAR.   Let  me  go,  please. 

FRED.  Yes.  I  say.  I  know  I'm  being  assinine.  I  am 
rather  an  ass.  But  I'm  a  genial  sort  of  ass,  and  if  there's 
one  thing  I  can't  stand  it's  one  woman  being  beastly  to 
another.  Women  are  the  limit.  (Rapidly,  as  MARGARET 
shows  impatience.)  What  I  mean  is,  can  I  do  anything 
for  you  ? 

MAR.  (curtly).  No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Mottram.  (Trying 
to  pass  him.) 

FRED,  (with  a  stronger  note  of  seriousness).  No,  you're 
not  going  till  I  let  you.  The  mater's  made  it  hard  enough. 
That's  the  worst  of  women.  They  won't  be  sportsmen. 
Mind  you,  I'm  not  blaming  her.  Swop  positions  and  you'd 
do  it  yourself.  But  you've  lost  your  job.  That's  an 
idiotic  thing  to  do  now.  As  if  any  footling  politics  were 
worth  a  tinker's  cuss  ! 

MAR.   Why  are  you  keeping  me  here  ? 

FRED.   I'm  telling  you,  aren't  I  ? 

MAR.   It  wasn't  very  lucid. 

FRED.  What  are  you  going  to  do  for  a  living  ? 

MAR.   That  isn't  your  business,  Mr.  Mottram. 

FRED,  (seriously).  Look  here,  I'm  not  a  woman  eater. 
I'm  a  cheerful  soul,  and  I  hate  to  see  people  in  distress. 
The  mater's  got  you  down.  Foul  blow,  too.  Hitting 
below  the  belt,  to  sack  you  without  a  character.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it,  Miss  Shawcross  ? 

MAR.   I  don't  know  yet. 


42  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [n 

FRED.  Let  me  talk  to  some  Johnnie  at  the  Club,  and 
make  him-  take  you  into  his  office. 

MAR.  Why  should  you  ?  And  do  you  think  anybody 
will  have  me  without  a  character  ? 

FRED.   I'll  fix  that  all  right.    Only  it'll  be  an  office. 

MAR.   I  can  typewrite. 

FRED.   By  Jove  !    What  a  brainy  chap  you  are. 

MAR.  I  don't  know  why  you're  doing  this,  but  I'll 
work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  if  you  can  get  me  work  where 
they'll  not  mind  my  principles. 

FRED.  You  can  be  a  Particular  Baptist,  or  a  Neo- 
Confucian  for  all  this  Johnnie  'ull  care. 

MAR.  Are  you  sure  he's  the  same  man  in  his  office  as 
in  his  Club  ? 

FRED.   Oh,  don't  wet  blanket  me.    I'm  only  trying. 

MAR.  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Mottram.  Your  friend  will  find 
me  a  hard  worker. 

FRED.  I  say,  you  won't  overdo  that  part  of  it,  will 
you? 

MAR.   What  part  ? 

FRED.  The  working.  Bad  form  to  make  the  pace 
hotter  than  the  regular  rate. 

MAR.   I  thought  offices  were  places  for  hard  work. 

FRED.  I  dare  say  you're  right.  I  expect  that's  why 
the  office  men  I  know  spend  so  much  time  at  the  Club, 
out  of  work's  way. 

MAR.  Mr.  Mottram,  why  are  you  doing  this  ? 

FRED.  Oh,  I'm  a  starved  creature.  Being  good  keeps 
me  warm. 

Enter  TIMSON. 

TIMSON.  Mr.  Garside. 

[PETER  enters.     He  has  gained  considerably  in  self- 
confidence,  and  enters  rather  defiantly.    Exit  TIMSON. 

FRED,  (stepping  forward).   Good  evening,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER  (seeing  MARGARET,  and  seeing  red.  Ignoring 
FRED.).  You  here  ! 

MAR.   Lady  Mottram  sent  for  me. 


n]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  43 

PETER.  It's  a  very  suspicious  circumstance.  I  find 
you  here  in  the  enemy's  camp,  looking  confused,  guilty. 
You'd  better  explain  yourself. 

FRED,  (offering  hand  again,  emphatically).  Good  even- 
ing, Mr.  Garside.  Why's  it  the  enemy's  camp,  when 
mayors  are  neutral  at  elections  ? 

PETER  (carelessly,  just  touching  his  hand).  Oh,  good 
evening.  Sir  Jasper  is  officially  neutral,  sir.  But  he  is 
actually  chairman  of  the  Employers'  Federation,  and, 
as  such,  our  bitterest  enemy. 

FRED.   By  the  way,  you're  here  yourself,  you  know. 

PETER.  I  am  paying  an  official  visit  to  the  Mayor. 
It's  different  with  this  lady.  She  works  for  me — ostenta- 
tiously. She's  supposed  to  be  addressing  a  meeting  for 
me  at  this  moment.  Instead,  I  find  her  here,  playing  the 
traitor  and  betraying  me  to  my  political  enemies. 

FRED.  I  always  thought  it  wanted  a  lot  of  imagination 
to  be  a  politician.  Does  yours  often  bolt  like  this  ? 

PETER.  That's  not  very  convincing.  (Brushing  him 
aside,)  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Mottram.  I  must  get  to  the 
bottom  of  this.  (To  MARGARET.)  What  have  you  to  say 
for  yourself  ? 

MAR.  Nothing. 

FRED.  Quite  right,  too.  Some  things  are  too  silly  to 
reply  to. 

PETER.   Then  I  shall  draw  my  own  conclusions. 

[PETER  is  left,  FREDDIE  centre,  and  MARGARET  right. 

FRED.  I'd  advise  you  to  draw  'em  mild.  (Turning 
to  MARGARET.)  This  isn't  your  lucky  night,  Miss  Shaw- 
cross. 

MAR.   It  doesn't  matter,  Mr.  Mottram. 

FRED.  Yes,  it  does.  If  you  won't  tell  Mr.  Garside 
why  you're  here,  I  will. 

MAR.  (appealingly).  Please  don't.  (Proudly.)  My 
personal  affairs  are  no  concern  of  Mr.  Garside's. 

PETER.  And  meantime  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  your 
ardour  to  defend  the  lady  only  makes  bad  worse. 


44  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [n 

FRED.  Good  Lord  !  I  always  said  politicians  were 
people  who  hadn't  the  brains  to  be  frivolous,  but  I  never 

knew  they  were  quite  so  stupid.    Why,  man 

[Enter  LADY  MOTTEAM  and  GLADYS.     FRED  stops 
abruptly. 

LADY  M.  (sweetly).  So  pleased  you've  come,  Mr.  Gar- 
side. 

PETER  (quite  sure  of  himself).  Good  evening,  Lady 
Mottram. 

LADY  M.  Mr.  Garside,  my  daughter.  (GLADYS  meets 
PETER'S  eyes  and  bows ;  he  starts  perceptibly.)  So  sorry 
Sir  Jasper  isn't  here  to  welcome  you,  but  I  hope  my  son's 
made  you  feel  quite  at  home. 

FRED.   We've  talked  like  brothers. 

LADY  M.  (realising  MARGARET'S  presence).  Miss  Shaw- 
cross,  I  think  I  told  you  you  could  go.  Will  you  ring, 
Freddie  ? 

FRED.   I'll  see  Miss  Shawcross  out. 

[LADY  MOTTRAM  shrugs,  and  turns  virtuously  away. 
FRED,  opens  door,  and  MARGARET  moves  to  it. 

PETER  (as  she  goes  past).  Wliere  are  you  going  ? 

MAR.   I'm  going  to  speak.    I'm  advertised  to  speak. 

PETER.  For  me  ? 

MAR.  (frigidly).   No,  Socialism. 

LADY  M.  (turning).  Then  you  will  take  the  conse- 
quences. 

MAR.  (quietly).  Oh,  yes.    I'll  take  the  consequences. 
[Exeunt  MARGARET  and  FREDDIE. 

LADY  M.  (sitting  on  Chesterfield  and  motioning  PETER 
to  sit  by  her.  GLADYS  sits  opposite).  Young  men  are  so 
susceptible  to  a  pretty  face.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Garside  ?  (Quickly.)  Oh,  but  of  course  you  are  serious- 
minded. 

PETER  (glancing  at  GLADYS).  I'm  not  beauty-proof, 
Lady  Mottram. 

LADY  M.  Ah,  but  real  beauty  is  so  rare. 

PETER.  That's  why  it  haunts  me. 


n]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  45 

LADY  M.   Is  there  a  case  in  point  ? 

PETER.  Yes. 

LADY  M.  (insincerely).  How  romantic  !  Do  tell  us 
about  it,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER  (eyeing  GLADYS).   Shall  I  ? 

GLAD.  Do  please. 

PETER.  It  is  romantic,  Lady  Mottram.  I  didn't  think 
such  beauty  could  be  earthly.  It  came  upon  me  just  as 
I  stood  speaking  at  a  street  corner  one  night,  a  face  on 
the  outskirts  of  my  audience.  I  was  tired  and  it  gave  me 
strength.  My  voice  was  failing,  but  it  rang  out  fresh 
again  to  reach  those  ears.  I've  seen  it  many  times  since 
then,  that  angel's  face  with  a  halo,  always  at  the  fringe 
of  the  crowd,  always  an  inspiration,  eyes  that  yearned  to 
mine  across  the  sea  of  caps  and  drew  my  very  soul  into 
my  words.  I  thought  it  was  a  dream.  Could  the  same 
clay  that  moulded  me  be  shaped  to  this  vision  ?  Until 
to-night  I  didn't  know  such  women  could  exist. 

LADY  M.  (trying  to  appear  interested).  It's  a  woman, 
then. 

PETER.   Woman  or  goddess,  she's  alive.    Yes. 

LADY  M.  She'd  be  flattered  if  she  heard  you  now. 

PETER.   I'm  not  flattering  her. 

Re-enter  FREDDIE. 

FRED.  I've  seen  her  off  the  premises. 

LADY  M.  Don't  interrupt.  Mr.  Garside's  telling  us 
about  a  woman  with  a  wonderful  face  who's  been  in- 
spiring his  speeches. 

FRED,  (sitting  R.C.).  Oh,  yes  ?  A  face  that  launched 
a  thousand  speeches  ?  Bit  of  a  responsibility  for  any 
face. 

LADY  M.  And  who  is  she,  Mr.  Garside  ? 

PETER.   I  didn't  know. 

GLAD.  What  a  pity.  She'll  never  know  what  she's 
been  to  you. 

PETER.   I  think  she  knows  now,  Miss  Mottram. 

FRED.    Fair  Unknown  inspires  your  speeches,  your 


46  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [n 

speeches  inspire  electors,  electors  elect  you,  and  it'll  be 
Garside,  M.P.,  when  it  ought  to  be  Fair  Unknown,  M.P. 

PETER.   Only  the  electors  haven't  elected  me  yet. 

FRED.   I  hear  they're  going  to. 

PETER  (confidently).   It's  highly  probable. 

LADY  M.  Do  you  know  London,  Mr.  Garside  ? 

PETER.  No,  but  I  hope  to  shortly. 

FRED.  You  must  let  me  show  you  round.  You'll  feel 
strange  at  first. 

PETER.  I'm  not  afraid  of  London.  If  it's  a  case  of 
London  conquering  me  or  me  conquering  London  I  know 
which  will  win. 

FRED.  Going  to  be  one  of  our  conquerors,  eh  ? 

PETER.   I  mean  to  try.    I've  got  ambitions. 

FRED.  Thank  God,  I  haven't.  A  cosy  club  and  a  decent 
cigar  are  good  enough  for  me.  Please  count  me  con- 
quered in  advance.  (Lolling  easily  in  chair.) 

LADY  M.  But  has  a  Labour  member  such  opportunities 
of — er — conquering  London,  Mr.  Garside  ? 

PETER.  If  he  puts  them  to  the  right  use.  Yes — there's 
money  in  it. 

FRED,  (sitting  up,  interested).  Money  ?  I'll  be  a  Labour 
member.  I  like  money. 

PETER.  I  don't  say  it's  been  done  up  to  now.  I'm 
going  to  do  it,  though. 

FRED.   What's  the  recipe  ? 

PETER.  Oh,  you  begin  by  journalism  and  lecture 
engagements. 

FRED.  And  that's  the  royal  road  to  wealth  ?  Mother, 
why  wasn't  I  brought  up  to  be  a  Labour  member  !  This 
solves  the  problem  of  what  shall  we  do  with  our  sons. 
Only  it's  too  like  work  for  me. 

GLAD.  Freddie,  don't  chaff  Mr.  Garside.  He  isn't  one 
of  your  frivolous  Club  companions. 

PETER.  Oh,  I  haven't  been  through  the  half  of  an 
election  campaign  without  toughening  my  epidermis, 
Miss  Mottram.  I'm  not  afraid  of  ridicule. 


n]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  47 

FRED.  You'll  go  far,  Mr.  Garside.  The  secret  of 
success  is  to  have  no  sense  of  humour. 

GLAD.  A  lot  you  know  about  success. 

FRED.  I  know  everything.  I'm  not  successful  and  out- 
siders watch  the  game. 

LADY  M.   Children  !    Children  ! 

PETER.  Oh,  don't  apologise,  Lady  Mottram.  I  know 
what  family  life  is  in  upper-class  households.  I've  read 
my  Shaw. 

To  their  relief  TIMSON  enters. 

LADY  M.   What  is  it,  Timson  ? 

TIMSON.  Sir  Jasper  is  asking  for  you  on  the  tele- 
phone. 

LADY  M.   Excuse  me,  Mr.  Garside.    (Rising.) 

TIMSONT.  And  there's  a  man  called  for  you,  sir.  (To 
PETER.) 

PETER.  For  me  ? 

GLAD.  You  go,  Freddie.  Tell  him  Mr.  Garside  wants 
to  be  left  alone. 

FRED,  (nodding  with  understanding  to  GLADYS).  All 
right.  I'll  deal  with  him.  Don't  disturb  yourself,  Mr. 
Garside. 

[LADY  MOTTRAM  goes  out  first,  FRED,  follows  quickly 
to  give  PETER  no  chance  to  reply.    Exit  TIMSON. 

PETER.  I  ought  to  go,  Miss  Mottram.  I've  meetings 
to  address. 

GLAD.  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  disappoint  Sir  Jasper. 
He'll  be  in  soon. 

PETER.   My  time's  precious. 

GLAD.  So  are  you — (hastily) — to  your  party,  I  mean. 
You'll  break  down  if  you  overdo  things. 

PETER  (consulting  watch).   My  conscience  isn't  easy. 

GLAD,  (coldly).  Oh,  don't  let  me  detain  you  against 
your  will. 

PETER.   It's  not  against  my  will,  only 

GLAD.  Then  won't  you  sit  down  ? 

PETER  (deciding  to  stay,  and  sitting  on  Chesterfield). 


48  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [n 

Thank  you.  (Stiffly.)  Some  day  I  hope  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  asking  you  to  sit  in  a  room  of  mine  like  this 
one. 

GLAD.  You  aim  high,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER.  I  mean  to  succeed.  I  feel  I'm  one  of  the 
men  who  do  succeed.  (He  doesn't  boast,  he  states  a 
conviction.) 

GLAD,  (insincerely).  I'm  sure  you  are. 

PETER  (ardently).  If  you're  sure,  there's  no  doubt  about 
it.  I'm  going  to  rise,  Miss  Mottram.  I  shall  win  fame, 

fortune Everything  the  heart  of  woman  can  desire 

will  be  mine  to  fling  at  the  feet  of  my  .  .  .  my  inspiration 
of  the  Midlandton  election. 

GLAD.  Ah.    Your  mysterious  vision  ! 

PETER  (leaning  forward).  Is  she  a  mystery  to  you  ?  I 
thought  you  knew. 

GLAD.   Knew  what  ? 

PETER.  You  see  that  inspiration  every  morning  in  your 
looking-glass. 

GLAD,  (rising).  Mr.  Garside  ! 

PETER.   I  thought  you  understood.    (He  rises.) 

GLAD.   I  understand  you're  being  impertinent. 

PETER  (confidently).  That's  because  you're  thinking  of 
my  past.  Peter  Garside,  the  Board  School  boy,  the 
working  engineer  with  a  home  in  a  back  street — a  great 
gulf  yawned  between  that  Garside  of  the  past  and  the 
daughter  of  Sir  Jasper  Mottram,  four  times  Mayor  of 
Midlandton.  The  gulf  is  narrower  to-day.  In  a  year  or 
two  it  won't  exist.  I'm  not  impertinent,  Miss  Mottram. 
I'm  being  bold  enough  to  look  into  the  future  .  .  .  the 
future  you've  inspired. 

GLAD.   I  ought  to  scold  you,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER.  Why  ? 

GLAD,  (lightly).  You  appropriated  me  as  your  inspira- 
tion without  leave. 

PETER.   Didn't  my  eyes  tell  you  across  the  crowd  ? 

GLAD.  Your  eyes  ? 


n]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  49 

PETER  (emphatically).  Yes,  mine  spoke  and  yours 
answered  mine,  not  once  but  half  a  dozen  times. 

GLAD,  (freezing).  I'm  afraid  you're  subject  to  delusions, 
Mr.  Garside. 

PETER.  You're  afraid  to  tell  the  truth. 

GLAD,  (fencing).  Truth's  so  miscellaneous,  don't  you 
think  ?  It's  a  diamond  with  many  facets. 

PETER.  I'm  not  here  to  bandy  epigrams.  Truth  is 
truth.  You're  afraid  to  own  by  mouth  the  truth  you  told 
me  with  your  eyes. 

GLAD.  Don't  you  think  you  overrate  the  communica- 
tive capacity  of  eyes  ? 

PETER.  I  think  you're  playing  with  me  now.  I  know 
you  didn't  play  then.  We  had  reality  there  in  the  street. 
I'll  make  you  tell  me  yet  you  meant  the  things  your  eyes 
spoke  to  me. 

GLAD.  Make  !  This  is  strange  language  for  a  drawing- 
room,  sir. 

PETER.  I'm  not  talking  to  the  drawing-room  miss. 
She's  a  stranger  to  me.  I'm  talking  to  the  real  woman, 
the  woman  I  knew  outside  there,  stripped  of  the  veil  of 
lies  you  try  to  hide  behind. 

GLAD.  But  you  don't  know  me.  I  never  met  you  till 
to-night. 

PETER.  I  didn't  know  your  name  until  to-night. 
What  do  names  matter  ?  Your  eyes  had  blazed  into  my 
soul. 

[The  door  opens  violently,  and  JONES,  wearing  his  hat, 
bursts  in  followed  by  FREDDIE,  who  is  mildly  pro- 
testant.  PETER  and  GLADYS  rise. 

JONES  (crossing  to  centre).  What's  the  meaning  of  this, 
Garside  ? 

FRED,  (following  and  tapping  him  on  the  back).  I  say, 
don't  you  even  take  your  hat  off  in  a  lady's  presence  ? 

JONES  (growlingly).   Ugh  !    (But  he  takes  his  hat  off.) 

PETER.   How  dare  you  force  your  way  in  here  ? 

JONES.     I   may  well  come.    You're  wanted  outside. 


50  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [n 

Meetings  shouting  themselves  hoarse  for  you.  Chances 
passing  while  you  loll  here  in  plutocratic  luxury,  idling 
in  the  gilded  chambers  of  our  enemies.  Faugh  !  (Kicking 
chair  violently  centre.  FREDDIE  picks  up  the  cushion  from 
it  and  offers  it.) 

FRED.  That's  rather  an  expensive  chair.  Take  it  out 
of  this  if  you  must  kick  something. 

PETER.  I  am  paying  an  official  call  authorised  by  my 
Committee  on  Sir  Jasper  Mottram. 

JONES.  I  don't  see  Sir  Jasper. 

FRED.  I  told  this  Johnnie  you  were  busy.  Tried  to 
soothe  the  beggar,  but  he  broke  away. 

JONES  (to  PETER).   Well,  you'd  better  come  at  once. 
[PETER  wavers  visibly  when  GLADYS  interposes. 

GLAD.   Mr.  Garside  is  our  guest. 

JONES  (more  roughly  still).   Come  away. 

PETER  (his  mind  made  up).  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the 
sort. 

JONES.  Don't  you  understand  ?  It's  imperative. 
They're  calling  for  you.  We've  done  our  best,  mark- 
ing time,  promising  them  every  minute  you'd  come — 
and  you  don't  come.  It's  serious.  They're  impatient. 
They  don't  want  us  others.  They  want  you — (sarcasti- 
cally)— silver-tongued  Garside.  We  can't  hold  them 
much  longer.  There'll  be  a  riot  if  you  don't  turn  up. 

PETER  (lightly).  Oh,  I'll  come  soon.    Let  them  wait. 

JONES.  They  won't  wait. 

PETER.   They'll  have  to. 

JONES  (imperatively).  You're  coming  now  with  me. 

PETER.  No.  I'll  follow  you.  (Reassuringly.)  It's  all 
right,  man.  I  shan't  be  long. 

JONES.  I'll  report  you  to  the  Committee  if  you  don't 
come  at  once. 

PETER.  You  can  report  me  to  the  devil.  Get  along 
now,  that's  a  good  chap.  I'm  busy. 

JONES  (very  earnestly).  Garside,  I  warn  you.  You  know 
what  a  crowd's  like  when  it  gets  out  of  hand. 


n]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  51 

PETER.  I  tell  you  I'm  coming.  The  longer  you  stay 
the  longer  it'll  be  before  I  get  there. 

JONES  (making  his  best  effort  and  meaning  it).  If  you 
don't  come  with  me  you'll  have  no  need  to  get  there.  I 
shall  bring  them  here  to  you. 

FRED.   Oh,  but  you  can't  do  that  you  know. 

JONES.  Can't  I  ?  You  tell  him  to  come  or  I'll  show 
you  if  I  can't. 

PETER  (impatiently).   In  a  minute. 

JONES  (inexorably).  Now  ! 

PETER.  No. 

JONES  (turning  abruptly).  Very  well,  then. 

[Exit  JONES,  slamming  door.    FRED,  opens  it  after  a 
moment. 

FRED.  I  don't  think  the  furniture's  safe  until  he's 
out  of  the  house. 

[Exit  FREDDIE. 

GLAD,  (excited  and  utterly  sincere).  It  must  be  glorious 
to  be  wanted  like  that,  Mr.  Garside.  Isn't  it  risky  to  deny 
them  when  they  call  for  you  ? 

PETER.  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  them. 

GLAD.   Why  didn't  you  go  ? 

PETER.  You  know  why  not. 

GLAD,  (sitting  on  Chesterfield).  Do  I  ? 

PETER  (standing  centre).  Every  night  I  can  make  my- 
self the  master  of  a  mob.  It's  no  new  joy  to  me  to 
feel  I've  got  them  there  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand.  I 
can't  speak  with  you  every  night.  That's  why  I  didn't 

g°- 

GLAD.  But  is  it  wise  ? 

PETER.  Wise  ? 

GLAD.   You  mustn't  spoil  your  chances,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER.  I  won't  spoil  my  chances  of  speaking  with 
you. 

GLAD.  But  if  the  crowd  makes  a  disturbance  ?  That 
man's  malicious.  He'll  stir  them  up  to  mischief. 

PETER.  I  can  calm  them  with  a  word. 


52  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [n 

GLAD.   What  confidence  you  have  ! 

PETER.  Yes.    In  the  power  you  give  me. 

GLAD.   You  don't  let  me  shuffle  off  responsibility. 

PETER.  You  wouldn't  want  to  if  you  could  forget  that 
you're  Miss  Mottram  and  I'm  a  working  man. 

[Low  murmurs  as  of  a  distant  crowd  off,  approaching 
and  growing  louder  as  the  scene  proceeds.  GLADYS 
catches  it  at  once,  and  is  alarmed.  PETER,  if  he  hears 
at  all,  is  inattentive. 

GLAD.    I  really  think  you'd  better  go  to  them,  Mr. 
Garside,  before  that  man  leads  them  here. 

PETER.   Not  long  ago  you  were  urging  me  to  stay — to 
wait  for  Sir  Jasper. 

GLAD.   Sir  Jasper  will  be  late. 

PETER.  You  said  he'd  be  here  soon. 

GLAD,    (rising,    exasperated).     Mr.    Garside,    will    you 
go? 

PETER  (shaking  his  head).   You  haven't  told  me  what 
I  want  to  know. 

GLAD.  What  is  it  ?    I'll  tell  you  anything  if  you'll  only 
go— go. 

PETER  (calmly).   Did  I  read  the  meaning  in  your  eyes 
aright  ?    (A  slight  pause.)    Did  I  ? 

GLAD,  (nervously  glancing  towards  window).    I  don't 
know  what  you  mean. 

PETER.  You  do  know.    You  won't  tell  me. 

GLAD.  I  can't. 

PETER  (sitting  centre).    Then   I'll  stay  here  till  you 
do. 

GLAD.    And  hold  me  responsible  if  your  ragamuffins 
wreck  the  house. 

PETER.    You've  only  to  speak,  and  I'll  see  they  don't 
come  near. 

[A  moment's  silence,  then  FREDDIE  enters  briskly. 

FRED.  I  say,  Mr.  Garside,  I'm  afraid  we  must  turn  you 
out. 

PETER  (still  sitting).  Oh,  how's  that  ? 


n]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  53 

FRED.  Your  friend  went  off  in  no  end  of  a  rage.  Said 
he'd  bring  your  meeting  here.  Mohammed  and  the 
Mountain,  don't  you  know  ?  I  really  think  you'd  better 
go.  We  don't  want  to  read  the  Riot  Act. 

[GLADYS  is  at  the  window,  peeping  through  blind. 

PETER.   The  matter's  out  of  my  hands,  Mr.  Mottram. 

FRED.   Why  ?    Surely  you  can  head  them  off. 

PETER.  Easily. 

FRED,  (irritated).   Well,  I  wish  you'd  go  and  do  it. 

GLAD,  (at  window).  They're  there.  There's  a  crowd 
coming  round  the  corner  now. 

FRED.  You'll  have  to  look  lively.  Come  on,  man. 
(Trying  to  make  him  move.) 

PETER  (to  GLADYS,  who  is  standing  left).  Well,  Miss 
Mottram  ? 

FRED,  (impatiently).  Oh,  never  mind  her.  Get  along 
sharp.  (He  opens  door.) 

PETER.  I'm  ready  when  Miss  Mottram  gives  the  word. 
I  shall  know  what  she  means  if  she  says  "  Yes." 

GLAD.   I  can't. 

PETER  (sitting  in  chair).  Then  I  stay  here. 

[Shouts  below  are  heard  :    "  Gar  side  !  "     "  We  want 
Gar  side!  "    "  Where's  that  silver-tongue  ?  " 

FRED.   Look  here,  this  is  getting  beyond  a  joke. 

PETER.   I'm  only  waiting  for  the  word  of  command. 

FRED.   Gladys,  for  God's  sake  say  what  he  wants  ! 

GLAD.  No. 

[Shouts  more  fiercely. 

FRED,  (helplessly  irritable).  Where  the  devil  are  the 
police  ? 

[LADY  MOTTRAM  rushes  in  hysterically. 

LADY  M.  Mr.  Garside,  save  us.  Speak  to  them  before 
they  get  violent. 

PETER  (coolly).  They're  doing  the  speaking.  (LADY 
M.  cries  out  inarticulately.)  I'm  waiting  for  Miss 
Mottram. 

LADY  M.    For  Gladys  ?      (Top  pane  of  tfie  window  is 


54  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [n 

broken  by  a  stone  which  falls  between  blind  and  window. 
Almost  shrieking.)    What's  that  ? 

PETER.   The  voice  of  the  people. 

FRED.  They've  a  nasty  way  of  talking.  This  looks 
serious.  (Crosses,  picks  up  and  quickly  pockets  the  stone, 
which  is  a  large  one.) 

LADY  M.  Is  it  a  big  one  ? 

FRED,  (nonchalantly).  Size  of  a  piece  of  wood. 

GLAD.   Very  well,  then.    Yes. 

PETER  (rising  briskly).  That's  what  I  wanted.  (Crosses 
as  if  to  open  door,  comes  round  to  window,  runs  blind  up, 
and  steps  out  to  balcony.) 

GLAD,  (as  he  is  at  •window}.   I  didn't  mean  it. 

PETER.  You  said  it.  (He  goes  out,  speaking  as  if  to  a 
crowd  below.)  Comrades,  I'm  here.  (Cheers  off.)  From 
the  house  of  our  Mayor,  on  whom  I  am  calling  as  the 

people's  candidate  at  this  election 

[FRED,  crosses  and  closes  window.    Faint  murmur  only 
is  audible  off. 

FRED.  I  can't  stand  this.  He's  spouting  Socialism 
from  our  balcony.  (Angrily.)  This  is  your  fault,  Gladys. 

GLAD.   I  was  told  to  keep  him  here. 

[LADY  MOTTRAM  has  collapsed  on  the  Chesterfield. 

FRED.  Not  with  a  mob  howling  for  him  outside. 

GLAD.   I  didn't  bring  the  mob. 

LADY  M.  What  will  Sir  Jasper  say  ? 

FRED,  (recovering  his  temper).  He'll  not  be  fit  to  listen 
to.  We're  the  laughing-stock  of  Midlandton.  This  'ull 
win  Garside  the  election.  He's  using  the  balcony  of  the 
Chairman  of  the  Employers'  Federation  for  his  platform, 
and  we've  let  him  do  it. 

GLAD.  We  tried  to  trick  him  and  he's  turned  the  tables 
on  us.  That's  all. 

FRED.   Clever  beast.    (Laughter  off.) 

LADY  M.   Listen  to  the  cheering  ! 

FRED.  Oh,  he's  popular,  only  that's  not  cheering.  It's 
laughter. 


n]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  55 

LADY  M.   What  are  they  laughing  at  ? 
FRED.  At  us,  ma  petite  mere,  at  us. 
LADY  M.  (standing,  with  extreme  dignity).  They  wouldn't 
dare  ! 

[Loud  burst  of  laughter. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III 

PETER'S  rooms  in  the  Temple.  Door  extreme  right  centre, 
with  the  passage  beyond  visible  with  telephone  on  its  wall 
when  the  door  is  open.  Door  left.  Fireplace  centre,  with 
low  fire  shining  dully  in  the  darkened  room.  Bookcase  right. 
Below  it,  table  with  inkstand.  Blue  books,  etc.,  and  revolving 
chair.  Arm-chairs,  left  and  right  of  fireplace.  Sofa  left, 
between  fireplace  and  door.  Heavy  carpet.  The  zvhole 
appointments  indicate  comfort  and  taste,  as  understood  in 
Tottenham  Court  Road :  there  is  nothing  individual  about 
tJiem. 

As  the  curtain  rises  the  room  is  in  darkness,  except  for 
the  glow  from  the  fire,  and  the  telephone  bell  right  is  ringing. 
After  a  moment's  pause  the  outside  door  opens  ;  then  PETER 
in  a  lounge  suit,  overcoat,  and  bowler  hat  opens  the  door  right 
and  turns  on  the  electric  light.  He  speaks  as  he  looks  off 
right.  His  self-confidence  has  increased.  He  is,  in  fact, 
coarsened  and  even  brazen  at  times. 

PETER.    Come  in  here.    (FREDDIE  and  GLADYS  follow 
him  in.    PETER  stands  by  door.)   Make  yourselves  at  home 
for  two  minutes.    That's  my  telephone  ringing  like  mad. 
[Exit  PETER  hurriedly,  closing  the  door.    Bell  ceases 
ringing.     GLADYS  is  in  winter  costume  with  furs. 
FREDDIE,  in  heavy  overcoat  with  hat  in  hand  and  a 
cane  which  he  swings  as  he  stands  centre,  surveying 
the  room  in  astonishment. 
FRED.   By  Jove  !    By  Jove  ! 
GLAD,  (standing  off).  What's  the  matter  ? 
FRED.   Does  himself  all  right. 
GLAD.   What  did  you  expect  ? 

56 


m]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  57 

FRED.   I  didn't  expect  this. 

GLAD.   Was  that  why  you  didn't  want  to  come  in  ? 

FRED.  I  didn't  want  to  come  because  I've  to  meet 
Charlie  Beversham  at  the  hotel  in  half  an  hour. 

GLAD.   Well,  you  can  meet  him. 

FRED.  Not  if  we  stay  here  long. 

GLAD.  You  needn't  stay  here. 

FRED.   Oh  ?     And  what  about  you  ? 

GLAD.   I'll  stay. 

FRED.  Hang  it,  you  can't  do  that. 

GLAD..  No.  You'd  rather  I  wasted  another  evening 
sitting  with  the  frumps  in  the  hotel  drawing-room  while 
you  discuss  odds  with  your  sporting  friend  in  the  bar 
till  it's  too  late  to  go  anywhere.  I'm  having  no  more  nights 
in  a  refrigerator,  thank  you. 

FRED.  It's  not  the  thing  to  leave  you  here.  You'll 
only  be  in  Garside's  way.  He'll  be  going  to  the  House. 

GLAD.    Then  he'll  leave  me  at  the  hotel  as  he  goes. 

FRED.  You  know  the  mater  only  let  you  loose  in 
London  because  I  promised  to  look  after  you.  (Good- 
naturedly  perplexed.)  You're  a  ghastly  responsibility. 
Why  on  earth  do  you  want  to  stay  with  Garside  ? 

GLAD.   Garside's  amusing  and  the  hotel  isn't. 

FRED.  I  simply  must  see  Beversham.  It  means  money 
to  me. 

GLAD.  Don't  let  me  stand  in  your  way. 

FRED,  (giving  way}.  Well,  I  do  like  to  be  generous. 
It's  the  only  thing  that  keeps  my  blood  at  normal  tem- 
perature  

PETER  (off  right,  at  telephone).  I  shall  shout.  You  may 
be  the  whip,  but  you'll  not  whip  me.  Important  division  ? 
I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do.  No,  I  shan't  be  there. 
Promised  ?  Of  course  I  promised.  I  started  to  come. 
How  did  I  know  I  was  going  to  be  indisposed  in  the 
Strand  ? 

FRED,  (whistling).  Whew  !  I  wouldn't  mind  betting 
you're  the  indisposition,  Gladys. 


58  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [in 

PETER  (off).  Yes.  I'm  far  too  ill  to  turn  out.  What  ? 
No,  I'm  not  too  ill  to  shout.  Good  night.  (Opens  door 
and  enters  without  his  hat  and  overcoat.)  Oh,  do  sit  down, 
Miss  Mottram.  So  sorry  I'd  to  leave  you.  (Pulls  left  arm- 
chair before  fire  and  pokes  it.)  I'll  make  the  fire  up.  It's  a 
cold  night.  (GLADYS  sits.) 

FRED.  Comfortable  enough  in  here,  Garside.  You've 
snug  quarters. 

PETER  (failing  to  conceal  his  pride  in  his  room).  It's  a 
beginning.  (Rising  from  fire.)  One  moment.  (Goes  off 
left  quickly,  and  is  heard  as  he  exits,  saying :)  Mother,  you 
let  that  fire  go  low. 

MRS.  G.  (off  left).   I  thought  you'd  gone  out. 

FRED.  Oh,  if  he's  got  a  mother  on  the  premises  that 
alters  the  case.  I  don't  mind  your  staying  now. 

[PETER  re-enters  with  MRS.  GARSIDE  in  a  neat  black 
dress,  spectacles  on,  and  a  "  Daily  Telegraph  "  in  her 
hand.  MRS.  GARSIDE,  though  sharing  PETER'S 
prosperity,  has  now  an  habitually  worried  look  and  is 
vaguely  pathetic.  She  enters  embarrassed. 

PETER  (off-handedly,  treating  his  mother  without  cere- 
mony). Mr.  Mottram,  Miss  Mottram — my  mother. 

[FREDDIE  bows.    GLADYS  advances  and  takes  hands. 

GLAD.   How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Garside  ? 

MRS.  G.   Nicely,  thank  you,  miss. 

PETER  (peremptorily).  Why  didn't  you  hear  the  tele- 
phone, mother  ?  Were  you  asleep  ? 

MRS.  G.  (meekly).  Did  it  ring  ?  I  was  reading  the  report 
of  your  speech  at  Battersea  last  night. 

PETER  (interested).  Oh  !  Where  is  it  ?  I  haven't  had 
time  to  look  at  a  paper  to-day. 

MRS.  G.  (handing  him  the  paper  and  pointing).  There, 
dear. 

PETER  (looking  and  speaking  with  satisfaction).  Two 
columns.  Good.  That's  pretty  near  verbatim. 

FRED.  Two  columns  in  the  "  Telegraph  "  ?  You're 
getting  on,  Garside. 


in]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  59 

MRS.  G.  (handing  the  paper  from  PETER  to  FRED.).  And 
look  at  the  headings  ! 

FRED,  (looking — awkwardly).  Er — yes — not  very  com- 
plimentary. 

GLAD,  (curiously).   What  are  they  ? 

FRED,  (returning  paper  to  PETER).  Tact  never  was  my 
sister's  strong  point,  Garside. 

PETER  (holding  up  the  paper).  Oh,  I  don't  mind  this 
in  the  least.  It  means  my  blows  are  getting  home. 
(Reading  the  headings.)  "  The  Demagogue  again." 
"  More  Firebrand  Oratory  from  the  egregious  Garside." 
(Putting  paper  on  table.)  Spreading  themselves,  aren't 
they? 

FRED.  Well,  it's  all  right,  so  long  as  you  don't  mind. 

PETER.  Oh,  they'll  need  a  big  vocabulary  to  express 
their  feelings  before  I'm  done  with  them.  I  haven't 
started  yet. 

FRED.  Hope  it'll  keep  fine  for  you.  Afraid  I  must 
toddle,  Garside.  I've  an  appointment. 

PETER  (his  face  falling  in  deep  disappointment).  Ap- 
pointment !  Oh,  I  did  hope  you'd  both  stay  a  bit.  In 
fact,  I — I  put  off  an  engagement  while  I  was  at  the 
telephone. 

FRED,  (looking  at  GLADYS).  Well — er — I  might  come 
back  for  my  sister. 

PETER  (enthusiastically).  Splendid  !  Have  something 
before  you  go  ? 

FRED,  (surprised).  Eh  ? 

PETER  (taking  his  arm).  Just  to  keep  the  cold  out. 
Next  room. 

FRED,  (turning  with  him).  I'd  an  idea  you  were  a  tee- 
totaller. 

PETER.  I  was  a  lot  of  things  in  Midlandton.  In  London 
I'm  a  man  of  the  world. 

[Exeunt  FREDDIE  and  PETER,  L. 

GLAD,  (sitting  on  sofa).  You  must  find  London  a  great 
change  after  Midlandton,  Mrs.  Garside. 


60  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [m 

MRS.  G.  (sitting  in  left  arm-chair,  facing  her — confiden- 
tially). I  haven't  had  an  easy  hour  since  Peter  brought 
me.  You  wouldn't  believe  the  prices  they  charge  me  in  the 
shops  if  I  want  a  chop  or  a  bit  of  steak  for  Peter's  tea. 
Dinner  he  calls  it  now,  though  how  it  can  be  dinner  at 
seven  of  an  evening  I  don't  know.  Thieves,  that's  what 
they  are.  Not  shopkeepers.  You  mustn't  mind  me 
running  on,  I  haven't  a  soul  I  know  to  talk  to  here.  It's 
a  pleasure  to  see  you,  I'm  sure.  And  the  streets  !  I'm 
feared  for  my  life  if  I  go  out.  I  know  I'll  be  knocked 
down  and  brought  home  dead.  Eh,  London's  an  awful 
place,  but  it's  Peter's  home  now,  and  his  home's  mine. 

GLAD.   But  you'll  get  used  to  it. 

MRS.  G.  I  doubt  I'll  never  get  used  to  this.  I'm  too 
old  to  change,  and  Peter  moves  so  fast.  What's  fit  for 
him  one  day  isn't  good  enough  the  next.  The  waste's 
enough  to  frighten  you. 

GLAD.  You  must  be  very  proud  of  your  son,  Mrs. 
Garside. 

MRS.  G.  (with  conviction,  dropping  her  querulous  tone). 
He's  something  to  be  proud  of.  I'm  the  mother  of  a  great 
man.  You  can't  open  a  newspaper  without  you  see  his 
name. 

GLAD.  I  know  that. 

MRS.  G.  You've  seen  it  ? 

GLAD.  Often. 

MRS.  G.  (rising  and  coming  to  table).  But  not  all.  I've 
got  them  all  here.  I  cut  them  out,  reports  of  his  speeches, 
and  paste  them  in  this  book.  (Crosses  to  sofa  with  press- 
cutting  book  and  sits  by  GLADYS.) 

GLAD.   His  speeches  in  Parliament  ? 

MRS.  G.  (with  fine  scorn).  Peter  doesn't  waste  his  words 
on  Parliament.  He  goes  direct  to  the  people — addressing 
meetings  up  and  down  the  country.  (Glowing  with  pride.) 
They  fight  to  get  him.  Pity  is  he  can't  split  himself  in 
bits  and  be  in  six  places  at  once.  Two  guineas  a  speech  he 
gets — and  expenses, — more  sometimes.  That's  what  they 


m]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  61 

think  of  him,  Miss  Mottram.  That's  my  son.  (Pointing 
to  a  heading  in  the  book.)  Silver-tongued  Garside.  That's 
what  they  call  him. 

GLAD.  Yes,  I  see.    (She  turns  a  page.) 

MRS.  G.  (looking,  bending  round  GLADYS).  Oh,  no,  not 
that.  I  oughtn't  to  have  pasted  that  in.  It's  an  attack 
on  him  in  one  of  our  own  papers.  They  call  him  something 
he  didn't  like. 

GLAD,  (reading).  Platitudinous  Peter. 

MRS.  G.    It's  all  their  spite. 

GLAD.   I  suppose  all  politicians  make  enemies. 

MRS.  G.  Oh,  he's  not  afraid  of  his  real  enemies.  The 
capitalists  can  call  him  what  they  like.  They  do,  too, 
and  the  more  the  better,  Peter  says.  But  that's  different. 
Mean  things,  attacking  their  own  side. 

GLAD,  (absently).  Yes.  (Putting  book  down.)  And  this 
is  where  he  prepares  his  speeches.  (Crossing  to  table.) 

MRS.  G.  (rising  with  book  and  crossing,  replacing  it  on 
table).  Yes.  Those  are  his  books. 

[GLADYS  looks  at  titles. 

GLAD.   Why,  this  row's  all  dictionaries. 

MRS.  G.  Peter  says  people  like  long  words.  He  writes 
his  article  at  that  desk.  Peter's  printed  in  the  paper  every 
week. 

GLAD.   He's  kept  busy. 

MRS.  G.  And  he  keeps  me  busy  looking  after  him. 

GLAD,  (sitting  in  the  revolving  chair  and  facing  MRS. 
GARSIDE,  standing  centre).  Have  you  no  help  ? 

MRS.  G.  Me  ?  Nay.  I  couldn't  abide  the  thought  of  a 
strange  woman  doing  'owt  for  Peter.  I've  cared  for  him 
all  his  life,  and  I'll  go  on  caring  for  him  until  he's  put 
another  woman  in  my  place.  Peter's  wife  won't  be  of 
my  class.  It'll  be  my  duty  then  to  keep  myself  out  of  her 
sight,  and  a  hard  job  I'll  find  it,  too,  but  I  was  never  one 
to  shirk. 

GLAD.  Didn't  I  hear  something  about  a  girl  in  Midland- 
ton,  who 


62  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [m 

MRS.  G.  (with  conviction).  Don't  you  believe  it,  miss. 
She  wasn't  fit  to  clean  his  boots. 

GLAD.  And  of  course  he's  all  London  to  choose  from 
now. 

MRS.  G.  London  !    He'll  never  wed  a  Londoner. 

GLAD.   No? 

MRS.  G.  He's  in  love  with  a  Midlandton  young 
lady.  Calls  her  his  inspiration  and  I  don't  know 
what.  But  I  tell  you  this,  miss,  I  don't  care  who 
she  is,  she'll  be  doing  well  for  herself  when  she  marries 
my  Peter. 

GLAD.  You  think  she  will  marry  him,  then  ? 

MRS.  G.  I'd  like  to  see  the  woman  who'd  refuse  him 
when  he  asks  her. 

[Re-enter,  left,  FRED,  and  PETER.     FRED,  addressing 
PETER. 

FRED.   Yes.    I'll  come  back.    I  say,  Garside,  before  I 
go,  congratters,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know. 

PETER  (the  pair  have  emerged  very  friendly).  Congratu- 
lations ? 

FRED,  (sweeping  his  hat  round).  On  all  this. 

PETER  (still  puzzled).  This  ? 

FRED.  This  jolly  little  place,  and  so  on. 

PETER.  Oh,  that's  nothing.  Part  of  the  game,  my 
boy. 

FRED.  It's  a  profitable  game  when  you  can  run  to  this 
after  six  months  of  it. 

PETER.  It  doesn't  afford  it.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the 
hire  system  ?  A  man  who  means  to  be  a  big  success 
simply  must  have  a  decent  address  and  be  on  the  tele- 
phone. People  won't  believe  in  you  if  you're  content  to 
hide  yourself  up  a  mean  street. 

FRED.   But  you  are  a  big  success,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER.   Oh,  I've  not  arrived  yet.    I'm  ambitious. 

FRED.  I  like  your  pluck.  Give  me  a  quiet  life  and  a 
thousand  a  year  paid  quarterly  by  the  Bank  of  England. 
Security's  my  mark. 


in]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  63 

PETEK.  I'm  betting  on  a  certainty  when  I  put  money 
on  myself. 

FRED.  I'm  such  a  thrifty  soul.  I  never  risk  more  than 
10  per  cent  of  my  income  on  certainties.  That  reminds 
me.  Beversham.  I  must  fly.  See  you  later.  (Reaches 
door  right.)  About  half  an  hour,  Gladys. 

[PETER  goes  out  with  him,  is  heard  closing  outer  door, 
and  returns  immediately,  closing  door.  MRS.  GAR- 
SIDE  yawns  ostentatiously. 

GLAD,  (more  with  an  air  of  saying  something  than  mean- 
ing anything).  Strange  that  we  should  meet  in  the  Strand 
by  accident,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER  (who  has  paid  for  the  moment  more  attention 
to  MRS.  GARSIDE  than  to  GLADYS,  speaking  jerkily).  You 
call  it  accident  ?  I  call  it  Fate.  (MRS.  GARSIDE  exe- 
cutes another  palpably  diplomatic  yawn.)  You're  tired, 
mother. 

MRS.  G.  Yes. 

PETER.   I'm  sure  Miss  Mottram  will  excuse  you. 

MRS.  G.  Then  I  think  I'll  go  to  my  bed.  I'm  an  early 
bird.  Good  night,  Miss  Mottram. 

GLAD,  (after  a  moment's  twinge  of  conscience,  accepting 
MRS.  GARSIDE'S  hand).  Good  night,  Mrs.  Garside. 

MRS.  G.  (to  PETER,  who  opens  right  door).  I'll  put  your 
supper  out.  You'll  only  have  your  cocoa  to  make. 

[PETER  tries  not  to  look  angry  at  the  intrusion  of 
domestic  details.  Exit  MRS.  GARSIDE.  PETER 
closes  the  door  and  stands  by  it.  GLADYS  is  still  in 
the  revolving  chair  with  her  back  to  the  table. 

PETER.  Yes.  Fate  didn't  mean  us  two  to  miss  each 
other. 

GLAD,  (lightly).   Do  you  believe  in  Fate  ? 

PETER.  I  believe  in  mine.  I  know  I  was  born  under  a 
lucky  star.  I've  a  genius  for  overcoming  obstacles,  no 
matter  what  they  are,  Miss  Mottram.  I've  the  knack  of 
getting  what  I  want. 

GLAD.  Don't  you  find  continuous  success  monotonous  ? 


64  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [m 

PETER  (smiling).  They're  such  precious  small  suc- 
cesses. I'm  on  the  foothills  yet,  and  I've  set  myself 
a  lot  of  peaks  to  climb,  but  already  I'm  in  sight  of 
the  highest  of  them  all.  (Looking  at  her  hard.)  Even 
from  where  I  stand  now  I  can  glimpse  the  Mount  Everest 
of  my  ambition. 

GLAD.  Happy  man,  to  know  what  you  want.  Most  of 
us  poor  creatures  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  we  want 
to  do  with  our  lives. 

PETER.  I  think  better  of  you  than  that.  You're  not  a 
bored  society  butterfly. 

GLAD.  Must  one  be  in  society  to  be  bored  ?  I  am  bored 
in  Midlandton. 

PETER  (with  the  quickly  acquired  London  attitude  to  the 
provinces).  Oh,  Midlandton  ! 

GLAD.  We  don't  live  in  Midlandton.  No  one  does. 
Midlandton  !  It  sends  a  shiver  up  your  back  like  the  tear 
of  a  sheet. 

PETER.   I  couldn't  go  back  now. 

GLAD.  And  I've  given  up  hope  of  ever  getting  to 
London. 

PETER.  Do  you  want  to  very  much?  (Draws  to- 
wards right  arm-chair,  and  sits  leaning  forward  towards 
her.) 

GLAD,  (with  deep  conviction).  I  feel  sometimes  I'd  do 
anything  on  earth  to  live  here.  (Smiling.)  You  see,  I'd 
like  to  be  a  society  butterfly.  You  can't  understand  that, 
I  suppose. 

PETER.   Why  not  ? 

GLAD.   I  thought  you  despised  luxury. 

PETER.  Oh  dear  no.  I  like  good  clothes  and  soft 
living. 

GLAD.   But  you  denounce  them. 

PETER.  What  I  denounce  is  luxury  for  the  few  and 
penury  for  the  many.  We  want  to  level  up,  not  level 
down. 

GLAD.   I've  heard  something  like  that  before. 


m]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  65 

PETER.  Probably.  It's  not  my  business  to  be  original. 
If  I  tried  to  be  lofty  I'd  be  talking  above  the  heads  of 
my  audiences. 

GLAD,  (puzzled).  I  wonder  how  much  is  sincere  ! 

PETER.  Sincere  ?  I'm  a  profesional  advocate.  I 
take  a  tiny  grain  of  truth,  dress  it  up  in  a  pompous 
parade  of  rhetoric  and  deliver  it  in  the  manner  of 
an  oracle  and  the  accent  of  a  cheapjack.  It's  a 
question  of  making  my  points  tell.  Sincerity  doesn't 
matter. 

GLAD,  (rising).  If  I  turned  myself  into  a  human 
gramophone,  I  shouldn't  boast  about  it,  Mr.  Garside. 
It's  not  very  creditable  to  live  by  fooling  the  public. 

PETER  (rising).  Creditable  ?  If  I  fooled  them  from 
Fleet  Street  they'd  make  me  a  peer.  The  public  likes  to 
be  fooled.  They  know  I'm  fooling  them.  They  pay  me 
to  go  on  fooling  them.  Some  men  live  by  selling  adul- 
terated beer.  I  live  by  selling  adulterated  truth. 

GLAD.   And  neither  makes  an  honest  livelihood. 

PETER.  No,  neither  your  father  the  brewer,  nor  I  the 
demagogue.  But  I'm  being  frank  with  you,  Miss  Mottram. 
Between  us  two  there's  not  to  be  pretence. 

GLAD.   Why  am  /  honoured  with  your  confidences  ? 

PETER.  Because  you  have  a  right  to  know.  I  do  these 
things  to  make  money.  I  want  money  because — because 
of  the  hope  that  was  born  in  me  when  your  eyes  first  met 
mine  across  the  crowd  in  Midlandton. 

GLAD,  (after  a  slight  pause).  Mr.  Garside,  I — I  think  I 
ought  to  go.  My  brother  only  left  me  because  he  thought 
your  mother  would  be  here. 

PETER  (going  towards  door  right).  Shall  I  bring  her  ? 

GLAD.   She's  gone  to  bed. 

PETER.   I  fancy  I  can  find  her  if  you  tell  me  to. 

GLAD.   I'm  sure  I  ought. 

PETER.  I'm  sure  you  always  do  what  you  ought,  so 

(Putting  his  hand  to  the  door-handle.) 

GLAD,  (quickly}.   Yes,  I  do — in  Midlandton. 


66  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [m 

PETER  (turning  quickly  from  door).  And  this  is  London. 
You're  on  holiday. 

GLAD,  (checking  him).  But  not  from  my  conscience, 
Mr.  Garside. 

PETER.  Oh,  conscience  is  so  much  a  matter  of  climate. 
A  Midlandton  conscience  finds  London  air  very  relax- 
ing. 

GLAD,  (sitting  slowly  right  as  before).  I  don't  think  you 
ought  to  disturb  your  mother,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER  (resuming  his  own  chair,  with  conscious  hypocrisy). 
No.  Old  people  need  such  a  lot  of  sleep.  So  that's  settled. 
Let  me  see.  I  was  talking  about  myself,  wasn't  I  ? 

GLAD.   Yes.    You  seem  to  find  the  subject  interesting. 

PETER.   I'll  talk  about  the  weather  if  you  prefer  it. 

GLAD.  No.    You  can  stick  to  your  text. 

PETER.  Thanks.  But  I  wasn't  talking  about  myself 
alone. 

GLAD,  (reflectively).  I  don't  remember  the  exception. 
It  was  all  yourself  and  the  money  you're  going  to  make. 

PETER.  The  money.  Yes.  I'm  making  money,  Miss 
Mottram,  and  I'm  going  to  make  more.  Do  you  know 
why? 

GLAD.   Money's  always  useful,  I  suppose. 

PETER.  Yes,  even  a  little  of  it.  But  I  shan't  be  satisfied 
with  little.  And  I'm  a  fairly  frugal  man. 

GLAD.  You'll  grow  into  a  miser  on  the  margin  between 
your  moderate  wants  and  your  colossal  income. 

PETER.  I  might  grow  into  a  married  man  on  that  margin. 
It's  to  be  a  good  margin,  because  I  believe  no  man  should 
ask  his  wife  to  accept  a  lower  standard  of  living  than  she's 
been  accustomed  to. 

GLAD.   I  didn't  know  Miss  Shawcross  lived  so  well. 

PETER  (rising,  sternly).  It  isn't  a  question  of  Miss 
Shawcross. 

GLAD.   I  thought  it  was. 

PETER.  So  did  I  when  I  was  a  boy  in  Midlandton  about 
a  hundred  years  ago.  I'm  wiser  now.  Women  of  her 


in]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  67 

class  can't  adapt  themselves  to  changed  circumstances. 
They're  a  drag  on  a  man's  career.  You've  seen  Miss 
Shawcross  ? 

GLAD.  Yes. 

PETER.  Well,  you  know  the  type.  Good,  plodding, 
conscientious,  provincial  girl,  with  about  as  much  ambi- 
tion as  a  potato.  Marry  her  to  a  bank  clerk  and  she'll 
be  in  her  proper  place.  Picture  her  the  wife  of  a  Cabinet 
Minister,  and — well,  no,  you  can't.  It's  unthinkable. 

GLAD.  The  wife  of  a  what  ? 

PETER  (imperviously).   A  Cabinet  Minister. 

GLAD.   But  you're  not  a  Cabinet  Minister. 

PETER  (quite  seriously).  No,  I'm  young  yet.  What  a 
man  of  my  stamp  wants  is  a  wife  who  can  help  him  to 
push  his  way,  not  one  I'd  be  ashamed  to  show  in  society. 

GLAD.  I  see.  You're  marrying  into  one  of  the  big 
political  families. 

PETER.  No.  I'm  showing  you  how  you  can  be  done 
with  Midlandton  and  get  to  London.  You  said  you'd 
do  anything  for  that. 

GLAD.  I  meant  anything  in  reason.  Shall  we  change 
the  subject  ? 

PETER.  No. 

GLADYS  (rising,  curtly).  Then  I  must  go  back  to  the 
hotel. 

PETER.  Your  brother's  coming  for  you.  Meantime  I 
ask  you  to  remember  the  difference  between  the  Peter 
Garside  of  six  months  ago  and  the  Garside  of  to-day.  I've 
bridged  the  gulf  that  lay  between  us.  A  man  of  genius 
can  do  things  like  that.  I  meant  what  I  said,  Miss 
Mottram.  I  didn't  say  it  till  you  encouraged  me. 

GLAD.   I  have  not  encouraged  you. 

PETER.  You're  here,  you  know.  You  let  your  brother 
go  without  you.  You  let  my  mother  leave  us  alone. 
Isn't  that  encouragement  ? 

GLAD,  (as  cruelly  as  she  can).  I  stayed  because  I  find 
you  amusing. 


68  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [m 

PETER.  Yes.  I  dare  say  I  am  amusing.  People  in 
deadly  earnest  usually  are. 

GLAD,  (gently).  We'll  forget  what  you  said,  Mr.  Garside. 

PETER.  No,  we  won't.  I  can't  ask  you  to  marry  me 
yet  because  I  am  not  rich.  I'm  merely  prospering.  But 
I  ask  you  to  wait.  Give  me  a  year — no,  six  months.  I 
can  offer  you  a  home  in  London  then.  It  won't  be  worthy 
of  you,  but  we  shan't  stagnate.  May  I  come  to  you  in 
six  months'  time  to  get  your  answer  to  the  question  I 
haven't  yet  the  right  to  ask  ? 

GLAD.   I  don't  know. 

PETER.  No.  But  I  know  six  months  of  Midlandton  are 
longer  than  six  years  here.  You  badly  want  to  live  in 
London  now.  You'll  want  it  worse  then.  Don't  think  of 
me  as  I  was.  That's  buried.  Think  of  me  as  I  am  and 
as  I'm  going  to  be.  (Electric  bell  rings  right.)  That's 
probably  your  brother. 

GLAD  (half  sorry,  but  on  the  whole  relieved).  Yes.  Don't 
keep  him  waiting. 

PETER  (moving  right,  and  stopping).  Before  I  open  the 
door  won't  you  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know  ?  It's  all 
for  you — all  my  ambitions.  I  only  want  position  for  you 
to  grace  it,  money  for  you  to  spend.  Give  me  six  happy 
months  of  hope. 

GLAD,  (with  a  low  laugh).  Will  hoping  make  you  happy  ? 

PETER.  Yes,  if  you  tell  me  I  may  hope. 

GLAD  (sincerely).  Then  by  all  means  hope. 

[Bell  rings  again. 

PETER.  That's  all  I  want.  (He  looks  at  her  humbly. 
She  extends  her  hand  impulsively.  PETER  kisses  it  rever- 
ently.) 

GLAD.   You're  very  absurd.    Now  let  my  brother  in. 
[PETER  crosses  and  opens  door  right,  leaving  it  half 
open,  as  he  goes  through  and  opens  outside  door. 

PETER  (heard  off  right,  in  surprised  voice).  Hullo  ! 

NED.  (off  right,  less  loudly).    Good  evening. 

[PETER  appears  outside  door  right,  pulling  it  to  him. 


in]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  69 

PETER  (off).  Leave  your  coats  here.  Excuse  me.  I'll 
— I'll  just  close  this  door  and  keep  the  cold  out  till 
you're  ready. 

[He  enters  rapidly,  opening  the  door  as  little  as  possible, 

and  closing  it  quickly,  putting  his  back  to  it.     The 

manoeuvre  is  not,  however,  executed  fast  enough  to 

prevent  JONES  peering  over  his  shoulder  as  he  enters. 

PETER  (standing  against  the  door).  It's  not  your  brother. 

GLAD,  (dryly).   I  gathered  that.    I'd  better  go  without 

him. 

PETER  (agitated).  You  can't.  That's  the  only  way  out. 
They'd  see  you. 

GLAD,  (surprised).   I  don't  mind. 
PETER.  They  mustn't. 
GLAD.  Why  not  ?    Who  are  they  ? 
PETER.  Constituents. 
GLAD,  (alarmed).   From  Midlandton  ? 
PETER.  Yes.    Let  them  get  a  glimpse  of  you,  and  God 
only  knows  what  tale  will  be  over  Midlandton. 

GLAD,  (agreeing).   Yes.    They  musn't  see  me.    On  no 
account.    (She  crosses  to  left,  PETER  nods  approvingly.) 
PETER.  My  mother's  there.    I'll  get  rid  of  them  quickly. 
GLAD.   Remember,  I'm  trusting  you. 

[Exit  GLADYS,  left.   PETER  opens  door  right,  and  speaks 

off. 

PETER.  Ready,  comrades  ?  Come  in.  (NED  and 
JONES  enter,  dressed  much  as  in  Act  7.  PETER  is  genial.) 
How  are  you  ?  Both  well  ? 

JONES  (as  they  shake  hands).  Yes,  thanks.  (With 
slight  emphasis.)  Are  you  well  ? 

PETER.  Quite  well,  thanks.  Never  better  in  my  life. 
(NED  and  JONES  exchange  glances.)  Sit  down,  comrades. 
It's  good  to  see  Midlandton  faces  again. 

[NED  in  arm-chair  right,  JONES  left,  PETER  in  revolv- 
ing chair.  PETER'S  attitude  at  first  is  the  mixture  of 
obsequiousness  and  patronage  of  an  M.P.  to  in- 
fluential supporters. 


70  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [m 

NED.    I  suppose  you  don't  see  many  people  from  the 
old  town  here  ? 
^  PETER.   You're  the  first  I've  seen  since  I  came  up. 

NED.  Ah! 

PETER.  And  what  brings  you  to  town  ?  Pleasure,  I 
suppose. 

JONES.  Well 

PETER.  Yes,  I  know.  London's  a  playground  to  you 
fellows.  It's  more  like  a  battlefield  to  your  hard-worked 
member. 

JONES  (firmly).  It's  not  exactly  pleasure  we're  here 
for,  Comrade  Garside. 

PETER.  Oh? 

NED.  More  like  business.  We're  a  sort  of  a  delega- 
tion. 

PETER.  Delegates,  eh  ?  What*s  on  ?  I  don't  remem- 
ber any  congress  at  the  moment  ? 

JONES.   We're  on  a  special  mission. 

PETER  (obviously  forcing  an  appearance  of  interest). 
Now,  that's  very  interesting.  May  I  ask  the  object  of 
this  mission  ? 

JONES  (grimly).  You're  the  object. 

PETER.  I? 

NED.  Yes.  We've  a  crow  to  pluck  with  you,  my 
lad. 

PETER  (not  yet  greatly  concerned).  Oh  ?  Something  you 
want  to  discuss  ? 

JONES.   Something  we're  going  to  discuss. 

PETER  (rising).  Well,  suppose  I  meet  you  to-morrow 
morning.  Come  here  at — yes — at  eleven,  and  I'll  give 
you  an  hour  with  pleasure. 

NED  (shaking  his  head).  You'll  give  us  an  hour,  or  as 
long  as  we  want,  now. 

PETER.  Really,  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  (Involuntarily 
glancing  left.)  I'm  busy  to-night.  I'll  see  you  to-morrow. 

JONES.  We  shan't  be  here  to-morrow.  We've  to  go 
back  by  the  midnight  train.  We've  our  livings  to 'earn. 


in]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  71 

PETER.  Well,  look  here,  come  back  in  an  hour  or  so, 
and  I'll  see  you  then. 

JONES  (commandingly).  You'll  see  us  now.  Your 
time's  ours,  we  pay  for  it. 

PETER.  You  haven't  bought  me,  you  know.  You  pay 
me  to  represent  your  interests  at  Westminster. 

JONES.  Then  why  aren't  you  there  representing  them 
to-night  ? 

PETER  (irritably}.   I've  told  you  I'm  busy. 

JONES.   Busy  with  what  ? 

PETER.   Mind  your  own  business. 

NED  (quietly}.  It  is  our  business.  We've  a  right  to 
know  why  you're  neglecting  your  duty. 

PETER  (hotly}.  I  don't  neglect  my  duty. 

NED,   What's  on  at  the  House  to-night  ? 

PETER  (embarrassed).  Well 

NED  (inexorably}.   What's  on  ? 

PETER.  The  Right  to  Work  Bill,  I  believe.  (Sitting 
again.) 

NED.  Yes.  The  Right  to  Work  Bill.  The  corner- 
stone of  the  Labour  policy.  Any  Labour  member  who's 
absent  from  to-night's  division  deserves  drumming  out 
of  the  party  as  a  traitor  to  its  cause. 

PETER.  Oh,  I'll  be  there  for  the  division  if  you  don't 
keep  me  here  too  long. 

NED.  The  division's  over.  You're  out  of  your  place 
on  the  most  important  night  of  the  session.  You've 
missed  your  chance  to  speak.  You've  missed  the  division. 
You've  not  paired.  Your  vote's  lost. 

PETER.  It's  not.    The  division  can't  take  place  so  early. 

JONES.  We've  been  to  the  House.  We  thought  we'd 
find  you  there.  Why  weren't  you  there  ? 

PETER.   I've  told  you  I  was  busy. 

NED.  You  told  the  Whip  on  the  telephone  you  were 
ill — too  ill  to  turn  out.  We  were  there  when  he  rang  you 
up.  We  come  here,  and  we  find  you  well. 

PETER.   I  am  indisposed. 


72  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [in 

JONES.   Indisposed  ! 

PETER.  I  meant  to  go.  I  started  out  to  go  only  I 
became  ill  on  the  way. 

JONES.  You  told  us  when  you  shook  hands  you'd  never 
been  better. 

PETER.  Oh,  I  dare  say.  The  usual  figure  of  speech.  I 
am  recovering. 

JONES.  No.  You  spoke  the  truth  then.  You're  lying 
now. 

PETER.   Lying  !    This  is  too  much.    (Rising.) 

JONES  (rising).  You'll  like  it  less  before  we've  finished. 
We're  not  in  London  losing  a  day's  wages  for  our  health. 
We've  been  called  up  to  decide  what's  to  be  done  with 
you. 

PETER  (angrily).  You'll  decide  what's  to  be  done  with 
me.  You  ! 

JONES  (firmly).   We  have  decided. 

NED  (still  sitting).  They've  been  showing  us  your 
record  at  the  Whip's  office.  You  ignore  them.  You  go 
to  the  House  when  you  think  you  will.  You  refuse  to 
submit  to  discipline. 

PETER.  I  serve  the  cause  in  my  own  way.  (He  is  con- 
sciously on  his  defence  now.)  It's  a  better  way  than  listen- 
ing to  dry-as-dust  debates  and  tramping  endless  miles 
through  the  division  lobbies.  I'm  getting  at  the  people. 
I'm  carrying  the  fiery  sword  of  revolutionary  Socialism 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  I'm  the 
harbinger  of  the  new  age.  Wherever  I  go  I  leave  behind 
me  an  awakened  people,  stirred  from  their  lethargy  and 
indolent  acceptance  of  things  as  they  are,  fired  with  new 
hopes  of  the  coming  dispensation,  eager  to  throw  off  the 
yoke  and  strike  their  blow  for  freedom,  justice,  and  the 
social  revolution.  That's  my  work,  comrades,  not  wasting 
my  energy,  my  gift  of  oratory  on  the  canting  hypocrites 
at  Westminster,  but  keeping  them  fresh  for  the  honest 
man  outside.  I'm  going  to  quarter  England,  town  by 
town,  until 


in]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  73 

NED  (rising,  and  putting  his  hand  on  PETER'S  arm, 
shaking  his  head).  It  won't  do,  Garside. 

JONES.  You  needn't  wag  that  silver  tongue  at  us. 
You're  found  out. 

PETER.  Found  out !  You  can't  find  out  a  man  you're 
incapable  of  understanding.  You  can't  drive  genius  with 
a  bearing  rein.  I'm  a  man  of  genius,  and  you're  angry 
because  I  can't  be  a  cog  in  the  parliamentary  machine. 

NED  (quietly).  Whatever  you  are,  you're  paid  to  be  a 
cog. 

PETER.  If  I'm  to  do  my  great  work  for  the  cause  I  must 
live  somehow.  The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire. 

JONES.  You're  hired  twice  over.  You  get  lecture  fees 
when  you  ought  to  be  in  the  House.  You  make  local 
secretaries  compete  for  your  lectures  to  force  your  price 
up.  You've  got  swelled  head  till  you  think  you  can  do  as 
you  like. 

PETER.  I  won't  be  dictated  to  by  you. 

NED.  And  yet  we're  your  masters,  you  know. 

PETER.  It's  my  nature  to  be  a  free  lance.  Routine 
would  kill  me.  I've  to  work  for  the  cause  in  my  own 
way. 

NED.  We  don't  want  free  lances.  We  want  workers. 
If  you  want  to  speak  to  the  people  aren't  your  week-ends 
and  vacations  good  enough  ? 

PETER.  A  hundred  days  to  every  week  are  not 
enough. 

NED.  We  sent  you  to  Parliament  to  obey  the  Party 
Whips  and  be  governed  by  older  and  wiser  heads  than 
yours. 

PETER.  Nelson  won  battles  by  disobeying  orders.  If 
you  didn't  want  independence  you  shouldn't  have  chosen 
me. 

JONES.  We  see  that  now.  You'd  ceased  to  be  represen- 
tative of  the  Midlandton  working  classes  before  we  chose 
you  for  our  candidate.  You  were  a  B.A.  You're  still  less 
able  to  represent  us  now  when  you  make  as  much  in  a 


74  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [in 

month  as  your  average  constituent  does  in  a  year.  We'll 
have  a  better  man  next  time. 

PETER.  Yes.  You  find  an  ignorant,  dense  average 
specimen  of  the  British  workman  without  a  soul  above 
thirty  shillings  a  week,  and  he'll  just  about  represent  the 
ideas  and  ambitions  of  the  Midlandton  mob. 

JONES.   Yes,  he'll  represent  us  better  than  you. 

PETER.  Then  God  help  representative  government ! 
You'd  better  be  careful.  My  personal  popularity's  your 
finest  platform  asset. 

NED.  Well,  it's  an  asset  we  can  do  without.  Put  it 
that  you're  too  brilliant  for  us. 

PETER.  Oh,  it's  the  old  story.  Genius  and  the  Philis- 
tine. For  two  pins  I'd  resign  my  seat. 

NED  (gravely).  We  accept  your  resignation. 

PETER.  What ! 

JONES.   We  come  here  to  demand  it. 

PETER  (abject).  Comrades,  you  don't  mean  this  !  You 
wouldn't  do  a  man  out  of  his  job. 

JONES  (curtly).  Oh,  we're  finding  you  a  new  job. 

PETER.   What's  that  ? 

JONES.    The  Stewardship  of  the  Chiltern  Hundreds. 

PETER  (slight  pause).  I  won't  resign.  You've  tried 
and  judged  me  in  my  absence.  You  haven't  given  me  a 
chance  to  say  a  word  in  my  own  defence. 

NED.  You  can  talk  till  you're  blue  in  the  face  without 
shifting  facts. 

PETER  (growing  increasingly  hysterical).  The  facts  are 
that  I'm  a  Member  of  the  House  of  Commons  for  the  term 
of  this  Parliament,  and  you  can't  force  me  to  resign  until 
I  do  it  of  my  own  free  will.  I'm  still  M.P.  for  Midlandton, 
if  I've  to  sleep  on  the  Embankment.  I'll  go  to  the  House 
in  rags.  I'll  be  an  M.P.  still,  M.P.  for  the  outcast,  the 
despised,  the  rejected,  the  human  derelicts,  victims  of 
jealousy  and  injustice  and  all  man's  inhumanity  to  man. 

JONES  (contemptuously).  You're  the  victim  of  nothing 
but  your  own  swelled  head. 


in]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  75 

PETER.  I'm  the  victim  of  my  own  great  nature.  A 
nature  that's  cast  in  too  large  a  mould  to  submit  to 
pettifogging  little  rules.  My  life  was  the  people's.  I  de- 
manded nothing  in  return  but  a  free  hand  and  no  inter- 
ference. I've  to  do  this  mighty  task  in  my  own  way. 

JONES.   Yes.    The  way  you  found  most  profitable. 

PETER.   I'm  spending  every  penny  I  earn. 

JONES.  Yes.  I'll  believe  you  for  once.  This  place 
proves  that.  We  sent  you  here  to  be  our  representative, 
not  to  be  a  bloody*  gentleman.  I  know  what  your  in- 
disposition was  that  kept  you  from  the  House  to- 
night. I  saw  its  skirts  when  you  opened  the  door. 
That's  what  we're  paying  for.  For  you  to — faugh,  you 
sicken  me. 

PETER.  You  lie. 

JONES.   I  don't.    I  saw  her. 

PETER  (deliberately).  There's  no  woman  here  except 
my  mother. 

NED  (solemnly).  Is  that  the  truth,  Peter  ?  I  also 
thought  I  saw  a  skirt  that  I'm  sure  your  mother  couldn't 
wear. 

PETER.  It's  the  truth.  Upon  my  word  of  honour  it's 
the  truth. 

JONES  (roughly).   I  don't  believe  it. 

NED  (protesting).   We  have  his  word,  Karl. 

JONES.  The  word  of  a  convicted  liar.  He  lied  about 
his  absence  from  the  House.  He's  lying  now. 

PETER  (with  determination).  You'll  take  my  word  for  it. 

[Door  bell  rings  R. 

JONES.  Yes,  if  you'll  let  me  see  who's  in  that  room. 

PETER.   My  mother's  there. 

JONES.  And  no  one  else  ? 

PETER.  Nobody. 

JONES.   Then  show  us.    Prove  it. 

*  This  word  must  be  omitted  in  representation.  It  was  censored 
by  the  Lord  Chamberlain  about  two  months  before  it  was  passed  in 
Mr.  Shaw's  "  Pygmalion.' 


76  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [in 

NED.  He's  said  enough,  Karl.  He's  passed  his 
word. 

JONES.  I  don't  believe  his  word's  worth  that.  (Snap- 
ping fingers.)  He's  lying  for  a  woman.  (Bitterly.)  It's 
the  code  of  a  gentleman  to  lie  for  a  woman. 

[Door  bell  rings  again. 

PETER.   I  can't  help  your  disbelief. 

JONES.  No,  but  you  can  open  that  door.  (Indicating 
left.) 

PETER  (his  back  to  the  door).  You'll  take  my  word. 
(Again  the  door  bell  rings,  and  MRS.  GARSIDE  enters  left. 
PETER  turns  round  on  her,  surprising  her  by  his  vehemence. 
Angrily.)  What  is  it  ? 

[The  door  remains  open. 

MRS.  G.  Someone's  at  the  door.  Didn't  you  hear  the 
bell  ring  ? 

PETER.  Let  it  ring.    Don't  you  see  I've  visitors  ? 

NED  (coming  forward  like  a  friend).  Good  evening,  Mrs. 
Garside. 

MRS.  G.  (unheeding,  troubled  with  PETER).  But  it'll  be, 
Mr.  Mottram  come  back  for  his  sister. 

JONES.  What? 

[He  crosses  to  look  through  the  left  door.   GLADYS  enters, 
meeting  JONES'  eye. 

GLAD.  May  I  go  through  to  my  brother,  Mr.  Garside  ? 

JONES  (falling  back).  Miss  Mottram  ! 

[PETER  looks  from  one  to  the  other  like  a  caged  animal. 

NED  (with  genuine  feeling).  Lad,  lad,  do  you  lie  for  the 
sake  of  lying  ? 

JONES  (triumphantly,  his  voice  ringing).  I  think  there'll 
be  no  difficulty  about  that  resignation  now. 

PETER  (after  a  slight  pause,  tensely).  On  one  condition. 

JONES  (scornfully).  You're  in  a  grand  position  for  mak- 
ing conditions. 

PETER.  Keep  your  mouths  shut  about  Miss  Mottram's 
presence  here,  and  I  place  my  resignation  in  the  Speaker's 
hands  to-morrow.  (Slight  pause.) 


in]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  77 

NED.   I  accept. 

JONES  (disagreeing  violently).   Well,  I 

NED.    You  accept. 

JONES.  But 

NED.  You  have  our  promise,  Garside,  and  you  can 
take  my  word. 

[JONES  is  silent  and  sullen. 

GLAD,  (vaguely).  What ! 

PETER  (hysterically).  You  heard.  I'm  resigning  my 
seat  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Humpty-dumpty  had  a 
great  fall.  ( JONES  laughs  aloud,  GLADYS  smiles  slightly, 
PETER  almost  screams.)  Don't  laugh.  (Suddenly  self- 
pitying.)  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying.  (With  a  flicker 
of  the  old  pride.)  But  I  was  an  M.P.  once.  You  can't 
take  that  from  me.  (Blundering  blindly  to  door,  left.)  Oh, 
go,  go,  all  of  you.  I  want  to  be  alone. 

[The  door  bell  has  been  steadily  ringing.    PETER  goes 
off  left,  and  bangs  the  door  behind  him. 

GLAD.   Will  you  let  my  brother  in,  Mrs.  Garside  ? 
[MRS.  GARSIDE  goes  right,  and  opens  door,  goes  through 
and  lets  FRED.  in. 

FRED,  (to  GLADYS).  Thought  you'd  gone  to  sleep. 
(Seeing  JONES.)  Hello  !  Our  friend  of  the  election. 

GLAD,  (impatiently).  Never  mind  these  men.  Come 
away. 

FRED.  Well,  don't  snap  a  fellow's  head  off.  (NED  and 
JONES  quietly  go  out  right.)  Sorry  I've  been  so  long, 
only 

GLAD.  It  doesn't  matter.  (Raising  her  voice,  looking 
left).  Mr.  Garside's  been  an  entertainment  in  himself. 

FRED,  (crossing).  Where  is  he  ?    In  there  ? 

GLAD,  (crossing  to  right  door).  Oh,  will  you  come  ? 

FRED.  Must  do  the  decent  by  our  Member,  you 
know. 

GLAD.  He's  not  our  Member,  he's  resigned. 

FRED.  Good  Lord  !   Why  ? 

GLAD.  Oh,  can't  you  see  we're  not  wanted  here  ? 


78  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [in 

FRED,  (crossing  towards  her).  All  right.  Don't  get 
vicious.  Nothing  to  lose  your  temper  over,  is  it  ? 

GLAD.  I've  lost  more  than  my  temper.  I've  lost  a 
chance.  .  .  .  Oh,  never  mind.  What's  the  next  train  for 
Midlandton  ? 

FRED.  Train  ?  What  you  want's  some  supper.  We've 
two  more  days  of  town. 

GLAD.  Yes.  We'll  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to- 
morrow we  die.  You're  standing  me  champagne  to-night, 
Freddie. 

[She  goes  out  right.  FRED,  looks  after  her,  puzzled, 
crosses,  and  shakes  MRS.  GARSIDE'S  limp  hand. 

FRED.   Good  night,  Mrs.  Garside. 

[He  follows  GLADYS.  MRS.  GARSIDE  goes  right,  the 
outer  door  closes,  she  turns  light  off  in  the  hall  and 
re-enters,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  PETER  re- 
enters  left,  composed. 

PETER.  Have  they  all  gone  ? 

MRS.  G.  Yes.  (Pathetically  puzzled.)  What  does  it  all 
mean,  Peter  ? 

PETER.  Mean  ?  Ruin.  My  career's  blasted.  (Sits  at 
table,  turning  chair  towards  her.) 

MRS.  G.  But  why,  Peter  ?    I  can't  understand  it.    I 

PETER.  Why?  Because  I  was  too  successful.  Jealousy. 
That's  it.  They  do  nothing  themselves,  but  they  won't 
give  young  blood  a  chance.  Mediocrity's  their  motto. 
They've  no  use  for  brains.  So  I'm  kicked  out. 

MRS.  G.  Don't  take  on  about  it,  deary.  They'll  find 
they  can't  do  without  you. 

PETER.  You'd  always  faith,  hadn't  you,  mother  ? 
(Turning  to  table  and  putting  his  head  on  his  hands.) 
But  I've  fallen  like  Lucifer,  never  to  rise  again. 

MRS.  G.  (struck  with  a  new  delightful  thought,  hesitating 
to  utter  it).  Peter,  it  means — it  means 

PETER  (not  turning).  What  ? 

MRS.  G.  (standing  centre).   Oh,  I'm  so  glad. 

PETER  (leaping  up  angrily,  and  turning  on  her).   Glad  ! 


in]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  79 

MRS.  G.  I've  been  so  unhappy  here.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
be  in  Midlandton  again. 

PETER  (disgustedly}.  Midlandton  !  (Shuddering.)  Those 
grimy  streets  reeking  of  poverty. 

MRS.  G.  (reproachfully).   Peter  !    Midlandton  is  home. 
[She  gives  way  a  little.    PETER  stands  centre. 

PETER.  Yes.  After  all,  why  not  ?  The  wounded  lion 
crawls  to  its  lair  to  die.  (Pause,  looking  straight  out.)  I 
wonder.  Am  I  a  lion  or  only  an  ass  braying  in  a  lion's 
skin? 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV 

Scene  as  ACT  I,  except  that  the  room  has  a  bareness  indi- 
cative of  a  recent  removal.  The  bookcase  is  on  the  floor 
instead  of  being  fastened  to  the  wall,  and  no  pictures  are 
hung. 

MRS.  GARSIDE,  dressed  as  ACT  I,  sits  dejectedly  in  the 
rocking-chair.  A  knock  at  the  door,  centre.  MRS.  GARSIDE 
sighs  heavily,  rouses  herself  slowly,  crosses  and  opens  door. 
DENIS  O'CALLAGAN  is  on  the  doorstep.  The  blind  is  drawn. 
One  incandescent  light. 

O'CAL.   May  I  come  in,  Mrs.  Garside  ? 

MRS.  G.   And  welcome,  Mr.  O'Callagan. 

[He  enters.    She  closes  door. 

O'CAL.  (coming  centre,  in  front  of  table,  glancing  up- 
wards). Still  the  same  ? 

MRS.  G.  (standing  centre,  gloomily).  Oh,  yes.  He 
doesn't  seem  to  care  for  anything. 

O'CAL.   I  can  hear  him  moving  about  upstairs. 

MRS.  G.  (sitting  left  of  table,  as  if  too  weary  to  stand).  I 
never  hear  anything  else.  It's  driving  me  mad.  Up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  all  day  long,  and  all  night  too,  till 
he  drops  because  he's  too  tired  to  put  one  foot  before  the 
other.  It's  like  a  wild  beast  in  a  cage. 

O'CAL.    You've  not  got  him  to  go  out  yet  ? 

MRS.  G.  Nor  look  like  doing  till  he's  carried  out  feet 
foremost.  He  says  he'll  never  show  his  face  in  Midlandton 
again.  I've  done  all  the  work.  Getting  the  furniture  out 
of  store  and  everything.  Peter  didn't  raise  a  hand. 

O'CAL.  You  dropped  lucky  finding  the  old  house 
empty. 

80 


iv]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  81 

MRS.  G.  I  don't  know  if  I  did.  It  reminds  him.  Won't 
take  his  food  now.  That's  the  latest.  Not  that  I've 
much  to  give  him.  Heaven  knows  where  it'll  end.  We 
with  no  money  coming  in  and  nearly  every  penny  as  we 
had  gone  to  pay  his  debts  in  London  and  fetch  us  here. 
Workhouse  next,  I  reckon. 

O'CAL.  (patting  her  shoulder  encouragingly).  Let  you 
not  be  talking  like  that,  Mrs.  Garside.  There's  no  call  to 
despair.  Peter's  got  to  be  roused. 

MRS.  G.  Haven't  we  tried  and  failed  ?  If  you  fancy 
you  know  the  way  to  do  it  I'll  be  obliged  by  your  telling 
me. 

O'CAL.   Oh,  we've  not  tried  them  all  yet. 

MRS.  G.  (vigorously).  Then  for  God's  sake  go  up  to  him 
and  try. 

O'CAL.  (without  moving).  Sure  he's  not  himself  at 
all. 

MRS.  G.  (rising,  with  more  force  in  her  voice).  Denis 
O'Callagan,  if  you've  a  plan  to  rouse  my  poor  boy  I've 
told  you  to  go  upstairs  and  try  it  on  him.  If  you've  come 
to  stand  there  like  a  log  and  tell  me  what  I've  known 
this  week  and  more,  there's  my  door,  and  the  sooner  you 
put  your  ugly  face  outside  it  the  better  you'll  please 
me. 

O'CAL.  (giving  way  a  little).  I  come  to  tell  you  of  the 
cure  we  will  be  putting  on  him.  I'm  thinking  it  won't 
be  to  your  taste  and  you  short  tempered  with  your 
trouble. 

MRS.  G.  Do  you  think  I  care  what  it  is  so  it  puts  an 
end  to  this  ? 

O'CAL.   Is  that  the  truth  you're  telling  me  ? 

MRS.  G.  Truth  !  Bless  the  man.  I'm  at  the  bitter 
end. 

O'CAL.  (briskly).  Then  I'll  be  stepping  out  and  bring- 
ing out  my  cure.  I  didn't  fetch  her  in  because  I  knew  you 
quarrelled^with  her.  (He  reaches  the  door  and  puts  his  hand 
to  the  latch.) 


82  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [iv 

MRS.  G.    Stop  !    Do  you  mean  Maragret  Shawcross  ? 

O'CAL.  Yes.  (He  takes  a  step  towards  table.  They  speak 
across  it.) 

MRS.  G.   That  woman  doesn't  cross  my  threshold. 

O'CAL.  The  sight  of  her  'ull  bring  the  life  back  into 
Peter. 

MRS.  G.   No. 

O'CAL.   You  said  you  wouldn't  care  what  I  did. 

MRS.  G.   I  didn't  know  you  meant  her. 

O'CAL.  (coming  round  table).  No,  and  you  called  me 
all  the  names  you  could  lay  your  tongue  to  when  I  came 
in  last  week. 

MRS.  G.  I  thought  you  one  of  the  lot  that  ruined  Peter. 
I've  told  you  I'm  sorry  for  what  I  said. 

O'CAL.  Yes.  You  see  it  now.  Why  won't  you  see  Miss 
Shawcross  is  a  friend  as  well  ? 

MRS.  G.  (sullenly).   She's  a  woman. 

O'CAL.  And  can't  you  be  mistaken  about  a  woman 
just  as  much  as  a  man  ? 

MRS.  G.  She  never  did  Peter  any  good.  She  always 
thought  too  little  of  him. 

O'CAL.  (pleadingly).  Give  her  a  chance,  Mrs.  Garside, 
she  loves  him. 

MRS.  G.  She'd  a  queer  way  of  showing  it,  then. 

O'CAL.   She  loves  him. 

MRS.  G.  (hotly).  And  don't  I  love  him  ?  If  love's  all 
he  wants  to  put  him  right,  won't  his  mother 

O'CAL.  There's  different  kinds  of  love.  Let  her  try 
hers. 

MRS.  G.  (grimly).  Yes.    Let  her  try. 

O'CAL.  (moving  eagerly).   May  I  ? 

MRS.  G.   Bring  her  in. 

[O'CALLAGAN  goes  to  door,  then  turns  suddenly  sus- 
picious. 

O'CAL.   You're  not  going  to  be  rude  to  her  ? 

MRS.  G.  I'm  going  to  give  her  her  chance  fair  and  square. 
Loves  him,  does  she  ?  We'll  see  if  her  love's  good  enough 


iv]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  83 

to  do  what  my  love  can't,  and  I'll  own  I'm  wrong  about 
her.    She'll  get  no  second  chance. 
O'CAL.   She'll  need  none,  neither. 
MRS.  G.  Well,  we'll  see.    Open  the  door  and  call  her  in. 
[O'CALLAGAN  opens  door  and  calls  off. 
O'CAL.  Will  you  come  in,  Miss  Shawcross  ? 

[Enter  MARGARET  in  a  plain  winter  costume  with  a 

cheap  fur  round  her  neck. 
O'CAL.  (in  her  ear  as  she  passes  him).   It's  all  right. 

[He  closes  door,  MARGARET  crosses  to  MRS.  GARSIDE. 
MAR.  (anxiously — waiving  ceremony).   How  is  he,  Mrs. 
Garside  ? 

MRS.  G.  (turning  from  her  to  O'CALLAGAN).  Bring  him 
down,  Denis,  you  know  the  way.  (O'CALLAGAN  crosses 
and  exit  R.  MRS.  GARSIDE  faces  MARGARET.)  We'll 
understand  each  other  first.  You're  here  on  sufferance. 
I've  let  you  in  same  as  I  would  a  doctor,  because  O'Cal- 
lagan  thinks  there's  a  chance  you'll  cure  Peter.  We're 
strangers  till  you've  done  it. 

MAR.  I  understand.  Thank  you  for  letting  me  come. 
How  is  he  ? 

MRS.  G.  He's  like  to  die  because  he  doesn't  want  to 
live. 

[Enter  R.,  O'CALLAGAN  and  PETER,  whose  spectacular 
disarray  is  nicely  calculated.  Physically  he  appears 
normal,  but  his  ruffled  hair,  cross-buttoned  waistcoat, 
unbuttoned  collar  and  crooked  black  tie  give  the 
appearance  of  hopeless  abandon.  He  enters  wearily, 
forgetting  himself  for  a  moment  on  seeing  MARGARET 
and  speaking  vigorously. 

PETER.  You  here  !  (Turns  as  if  to  go  back,  but  O'CAL- 
LAGAN closes  the  door  quickly.)  Why  didn't  you  tell  me, 
Denis  ? 

MAR.  (stepping  forward).  Don't  go.  I've  come  to  see 
you,  Peter. 

PETER.  I'm  not  on  exhibition.  What  have  you  come 
for  ?  To  gloat  over  me,  to  see  for  yourself  how  well  you 


84  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [iv 

prophesied  when  you  told  me  I  should  fail.    (He  turns  his 
back  on  her,  only  to  face  O'CALLAGAN.) 

O'CAL.  I'm  telling  you  you're  not  a  failure.  It's  just 
a  temporary  check  in  your  career  you've  had. 

PETER  (sullenly).   My  career's  ended. 

[MRS.  GARSIDE  sits  in  the  rocking-chair,  aloof,  watching. 

MAR.   At  twenty-six,  Peter  ? 

PETER  (turning).  That's  my  tragedy.  Waste.  At 
twenty-six  I'm  looking  backward  on  a  closed  account. 
The  future's  blank — all  the  brilliant  fruitful  years  I 
might  have  lived. 

MAR.   That  you  will  live,  Peter. 

PETER  (sitting  left  of  table,  elbows  on  table  and  head 
in  hands).  Oh,  what's  the  use  of  that  ?  I'm  finished. 
Out,  middle  stump.  And  [there's  no  second  innings  in 
life. 

O'CAL.  Isn't  there  ?  Don't  the  people  need  you  just 
as  much  as  ever  ? 

PETER  (without  turning  to  him).  The  people  have  no 
use  for  broken  idols,  Denis. 

MAR.   But  we  need  you,  Peter. 

PETER  (looking  up).  Who  are  we  ? 

MAR.   Your  own  people. 

PETER.   You  !    You  never  believed  in  me. 

MAR.  I  always  thought  you'd  the  wrong  temperament 
for  Parliament. 

PETER.  You  knew  me  for  the  rotten  failure  that  I  am. 
I  congratulate  you  on  your  perspicacity. 

MAR.  (shaking  her  head).  I'm  not  proud  of  it.  What  do 
you  propose  to  do  ? 

PETER.  I  don't  propose  to  do  anything.  (Resuming 
the  hopeless  attitude).  I've  shot  my  bolt.  I'm  a  man  with 
a  past,  an  ex-M.P.,  ex-Everything. 

O'CAL.  (with  conviction).   You're  a  blazing  idiot. 

PETER.   I  quite  agree. 

O'CAL.  You're  not.  You  know  you're  not.  I'm  only 
saying  it  to  rouse  you. 


iv]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  85 

PETER.  You'll  say  nothing  that  I  won't  agree 
with. 

O'CAL.  All  right.    You've  a  big  future  before  you. 

PETER.    I  can't  agree  to  that. 

O'CAL.   You  have.    You're  going  to 

PETER.  I'm  going  to  take  it  lying  down,  Denis,  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  it. 

MAR.   That's  a  pretty  mean  thing  to  say,  Peter. 

PETER.  Oh,  taunts  don't  sting  me  now.  I've  reached 
the  further  side  of  agony. 

MAR.  (sitting  at  table,  centre,  leaning  on  it  very  close  to 
PETER,  and  speaking  without  a  trace  of  sympathy).  Peter, 
don't  you  think  you've  made  sufficient  demonstration  of 
your  grief  ? 

PETER.  Demonstration  ? 

MAR.  We're  all  tremendously  impressed.  You've 
thoroughly  alarmed  us.  That's  what  you  wanted, 
wasn't  it  ?  (PETER  meets  her  eye  questioningly.)  To 
prove  to  yourself  that  after  all  you're  still  of  con- 
sequence to  somebody.  It's  quite  true,  [Peter.  We're 
not  content  to  watch  you  sulk  to  death.  You've  made 
your  big  effect.  For  a  week  you've  had  the  joy  of 
fostering  your  wound,  keeping  it  open  for  all  the 
world  to  see  how  hardly  you've  been  hit,  but  it's  time 
you  healed  it  now. 

PETER  (hiding  his  head  on  the  table).  Misunderstood  ! 

MAR.  Misunderstood  ?  (Rising  and  tapping  the  table.) 
Or  found  out,  Peter  ?  Which  ? 

PETER  (pitiably  turning,  still  sitting,  to  MRS.  GARSIDE). 
Mother,  you  let  these  people  in.  Are  you  going  to  sit 
there  and  let  them  bully  a  sick  man  ? 

MAR.  (admiringly).  That's  a  good  pose,  Peter.  The 
great,  strong,  self-willed  man  brought  down  to  crying  to 
his  mammie. 

PETER  (in  an  agonised  shriek).  Mother  ! 

MRS.  G.  (firmly}.  I'm  not  going  to  interfere.  I  promised 
Margaret  her  own  way. 


86  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [iv 

PETER.  But 

MRS.  G.  (interrupting,  dryly).  Besides,  I  think  there 
may  be  something  in  it. 

[PETER  hides  his  face  again  with  a  deep  "  Oh  !  " 

O'CAL.  (putting  his  hand  on  PETER'S  shoulder).  Be  a 
man,  Peter. 

PETER  (looking  up  at  him).  Yes,  it's  all  very  well  for 
you  to  talk.  You  with  your  beastly  robust  health.  I'm 
an  invalid. 

MAR.  I  assure  you,  you're  not  looking  half  so  feeble 
as  you  did.  You're  improving  under  treatment. 

PETER.   Then  I  must  thrive  on  torture. 

MAR.  Something's  doing  you  good.  You're  not  the 
woebegone  catastrophe  you  were. 

PETER  (rising).   I  won't  tolerate  this. 

MAR.  You  prefer  to  be  a  catastrophe,  in  fact  ? 

PETER  (moving  right).  I  want  to  be  left  alone.  I'm 
going  to  my  bedroom.  You  can't  follow  me  there. 

MAR.  Oh,  you'll  not  escape  that  way.  I  don't  in  the 
least  mind  invading  your  bedroom.  A  doctor  has  privi- 
leges. 

PETER.  All  right.  I'll  go  out,  then.  Mother,  where's 
my  hat  ? 

MAR.   Splendid.    Fresh  air  will  do  you  good. 

PETER.  I  won't  go  out.  They'll  mock  me  in  the 
streets. 

MAR.  Then  you  prefer  my  medicine  ?  I'll  go  on  dosing 
you. 

PETER  (sitting  centre,  behind  table,  covering  face).  I'll 
close  my  eyes  and  stop  my  ears. 

MAR.  (taking  her  hat  off).  The  night  is  young.  (She  puts 
her  hat  on  the  bookcase  and  her  fur  on  it.) 

PETER  (turning  and  watching  her).  Oh  !  So  it's  to  be 
a  trial  of  strength,  is  it  ? 

MAR.  Just  as  you  like.  As  I'm  strong  and  you're  weak, 
I  ought  to  win. 

PETER.   We'll  see  if  I'm  weak. 


iv]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  87 

MAR.  Of  course,  I've  only  your  word  for  it. 

[MARGARET  takes  chair  from  wall,  right,  and  puts  it 
before  fire. 

PETER.  Weak  as  I  am,  I'm  strong  enough  to  tire  you 
out.  (Folding  his  arms.) 

MAR.  I  don't  go  to  work  till  nine  in  the  morning. 
(Sitting  on  her  chair.)  You  don't  mind  my  making  myself 
comfortable  for  the  night,  Mrs.  Garside  ? 

MRS.  G.  I've  told  you  I'm  not  interfering,  Margaret. 
You  can  do  as  you  like. 

MAR.  Denis,  go  home.  I  want  to  be  alone  with 
Peter. 

PETER.  Stay  where  you  are,  Denis.  Don't  leave  me 
alone  with  her. 

O'CAL.  Don't !  But  I  will  and  sharp  too,  for  it's 
wishing  you  a  quick  recovery  I  am,  and  the  more  you  hate 
your  medicine  the  better  it  is  for  you.  Good  night. 

[Exit  O'CALLAGAN,  L. 

MAR.  Now,  Peter,  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you. 

MRS.  G.   I'll  take  myself  out  of  your  way.    (Going  R.) 

PETER.  Mother  !  You  too  !  Haven't  I  a  friend  in  the 
world  ? 

MRS.  G.  You  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  It's  her  turn  now. 
Call  me  if  you  want  me,  Margaret. 

[Exit  MRS.  GARSIDE,  R. 

PETER  (sitting  c.,  stopping  his  ears).  I  shan't 
listen. 

MAR.  (sitting  and  making  herself  ostentatiously  comfort- 
able in  the  rocking-chair,  poking  fire).  Oh,  take  your  time. 
I'm  quite  comfortable.  (She  leans  back  humming  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home.") 

PETER  (unstopping  his  ears).  What  ? 

MAR.  Oh,  could  you  hear  ?  You're  such  a  bad  listener 
as  a  rule.  You  much  prefer  to  talk. 

PETER  (folding  his  arms).  My  talking  days  are  past. 
I'll  be  as  mute  as  a  fish.  Go  on.  Say  what  you  like.  I'll 
stand  it  all. 


88  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [iv 

MAR.  (rising  and  looking  down  on  him).  Peter,  Peter, 
how  young  you  are  ! 

PETER  (rising  excitedly).   Young  !    I'm  not  young. 

MAR.   I  thought  you  were  going  to  be  silent. 

PETER  (walking  up  and  down).  Young  !  As  if  youth 
had  anything  to  do  with  arithmetic  and  the  number  of 
one's  years.  I'm  old  in  suffering  and  experience.  I'm 
an  old,  old  man. 

MAR.  (standing  c.  against  table,  watching).  When  you 
sow  wild  oats  that  old  feeling  is  usually  part  of  the 
crop. 

PETER  (hotly).  I  haven't  sown  wild  oats.  I'm  not  that 
sort  of  man.  (Hesitating.)  Unless  you  mean 

MAR.   I  didn't,  but  I  might  have  done. 

PETER  (sitting,  sullenly).  I  wish  there  were  no  such 
things  as  women  in  the  world  ! 

MAR.  The  bi-sexual  system  has  its  disadvantages. 
But  we'll  forget  Miss  Mottram,  Peter.  That  was  a 
private  indiscretion.  You  sowed  your  wild  oats  publicly 
in  the  fierce  light  that  beats  upon  a  politician.  That  was 
the  arrogance  of  youth. 

PETER.   I'm  not  so  young  as  you. 

MAR.  No.  Youth  is  a  gift  we  both  possess.  I  don't 
intend  to  waste  mine,  Peter. 

PETER.  No  ?  Well,  you've  me  before  you  as  an  awful 

warning.  I'm  a  living  cautionary  tale.  I'm O, 

what's  the  good  of  talking  ? 

MAR.  Here's  a  change  of  front !  You  used  to  tell  me 
talking  was  the  finest  thing  you  knew. 

PETER.   Margaret,  have  you  no  reverence  at  all  ? 

MAR.  For  talking  ? 

PETER.  For  human  suffering.  You're  mocking  at  my 
life's  tragedy.  You  hummed  a  tune  just  now  you  must 
have  known  was  agony  to  me.  My  home  in  Midlandton  ! 
It's  like  living  in  an  ashpit. 

MAR.  Oh,  no,  it's  not,  and  if  it  is,  the  microbes  can  be 
happy  in  their  insignificance. 


iv]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  89 

PETER  (solemnly).    I  shall  not  know  happiness  again. 

MAR.   Oh,  need  you  keep  it  up  with  me,  Peter  ? 

PETER  (surprised).   Keep  what  up  ? 

MAR.   The  pose.    You've  had  your  fun  with  us. 

PETER.  Fun  ! 

MAR.  You've  brought  us  to  your  feet.  We've  all  come  : 
all  of  us  who  care. 

PETER.  Care  ?  What  do  you  care  for  me  ?  Why 
should  you  care  for  a  broken  man,  a  derelict,  one  of  the 
legion  of  the  lost,  a  rotten 

MAR.  (vigorously).  Will  you  stop  embroidering  ?  Do 
you  think  I've  come  to  listen  to  all  the  pretty  phrases 
you've  spent  a  week  inventing  about  yourself  ? 

PETER.   Heaven  knows  what  you  came  for. 

MAR.  You  know  as  well  as  Heaven  does. 

PETER.  Do  I  ?  But  it's So  much  has  happened 

since.  That's  all  so  long  ago. 

MAR.   Less  than  a  year,  Peter. 

PETER.  A  year  !  What's  a  year  !  From  poverty  to 
Parliament,  from  Parliament  to  hell. 

MAR.   Still  spinning  phrases,  Peter. 

PETER  (sincerely).  I'm  a  pauper,  Margaret.  That's  not 
a  phrase,  it's  a  fact. 

MAR.   Is  there  no  work  to  be  done  in  the  world  ? 

PETER.  A  man  like  me  wants  something  else  than 
bread  to  work  for.  I  had  a  career  once,  it's  gone  to- 
day. 

MAR.   Thank  God,  it  is. 

PETER.  Yes,  if  you  like,  thank  God  for  it.  It  deserved 
to  go.  But  nothing's  left  worth  living  for. 

MAR.   I'll  give  you  that. 

PETER.  What? 

MAR.  The  object,  Peter.  Don't  say  again  you  don't 
know  why  I  came. 

PETER.  Yes,  Margaret,  I  know. 

MAR.   Why  not  admit  it,  then  ? 

PETER.    Because  I  daren't.     A  man  who's  fallen  as  I 


90  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  [iv 

fell  deserves  no  second  chance.  I've  been  a  billy  fool,  but 
it  won't  mend  that  to  be  a  criminal  fool. 

MAR.  What  do  you  mean  by  being  a  criminal  fool  ? 

PETER.  I  might  have  acted  as  I  meant  to  act  when 
next  I  saw  you. 

MAR.  How  did  you  mean  to  act  ? 

PETER.  I  meant  to  ask  forgiveness  on  my  knees  for  all 
the  things  I  said  to  you.  Up  in  my  room  I'd  come  to  see 
it  all,  see  what  a  swine  I'd  been,  how  right  you  were, 
how  much  you  knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself.  I 
thought  in  London  that  I'd  met  the  worst.  I  thought 
my  bitterest  hour  was  past.  But  worst  and  bitterest  of 
all  was  when  I  realised  all  that  I'd  done  to  you,  all  that 
that  doing  made  me  miss. 

MAR.  (hardly).  Then  when  I  came  you  didn't  do  as 
you  intended. 

PETER.  Margaret,  I  saw  you  and  I  felt  ashamed.  It's 
one  thing  to  decide  within  one's  mind  to  do  a  thing,  but 
quite  another  thing  to  do  it  in  the  flesh.  I  saw  you, 
saw  the  suffering  in  your  face  and  knew  that  I  had  caused 
it  all.  I  felt  ashamed  to  speak. 

MAR.  Ashamed  to  ask  forgiveness  ?  Ashamed  to  carry 
out  your  plan  ? 

PETER.  We  weren't  alone.    There  were  others  there. 

MAR.  Just  pride,  in  fact.  You  were  too  proud  to  ask. 
And  when  the  others  went  ? 

PETER.  Oh,  yes.  Yes.  Pride  again.  Then,  too, 
until 

MAR.   Till  when  ?    You've  not  asked  yet. 

PETER.  Margaret,  am  I  worth  while  forgiving  ? 

MAR.  Peter,  when  your  mother  let  me  come,  I 
came. 

PETER.  Yes  ! 

MAR.   So  I  thought  it  worth  while. 

PETER.   Margaret,  you  are  so  beautiful,  and  I 

MAR.  Listen  to  me,  Peter.  You  tell  me  I  am  beautiful. 
You  told  me  I  am  young.  I  am,  but  I'm  a  year  older 


iv]  GARSIDE'S  CAREER  91 

than  I  was  twelve  months  ago.  Twelve  months  ago,  when 
you 

PETER.  Yes.    I  know. 

MAIL  It's  been  a  crowded  year  for  you.  (Gesture  from 
PETER.)  Too  crowded,  yes,  but  there  was  glamour  in  it  all. 
You've  paid  a  price,  but  you've  known  the  flavour  of 
success.  You've  had  your  fun.  I've  spent  my  year  in 
Midlandton — (PETER  shudders] — a  place  where  one  can 
live,  Peter.  Oh,  yes,  one  can.  But  I've  been  lonely  here. 
A  year's  dropped  from  me  sadly,  slowly.  I've  kept  myself 
alive  and  that,  the  daily  round,  is  all  my  history,  while 
you — well,  never  mind.  The  past  is  past.  We're  where 
we  were  a  year  ago,  a  little  older,  just  a  little  less  in  love 
with  life,  but  still  we're  here,  Peter.  You  and  I,  just  as 
we  were  before. 

PETER.  Just  as  we  were  ? 

MAR.  Why  not  ?  Love  understands.  We're  both  a 
little  scarred.  We  both  need  picking  up  and  making 
whole.  We  need  each  other,  Peter. 

PETER.  You  need  me !  Margaret,  you're  not  just 
putting  it  that  way  because 

MAR.   Because  it's  true.    We  need  each  other  badly. 

PETER  (taking  for).   Margaret  ! 

MAR.   So  you  will  have  me,  Peter  ? 

PETER.  I  think  I  always  loved  you,  Margaret.  Through- 
out the  madness  of  my  pride,  behind  it  all,  I  think  I 
never  quite  forgot  the  great  reality  of  you.  I've  been 
ambition's  drunkard,  but  behind  the  mist  of  self-deluded 
dream,  the  light  shone  dimly  through.  London  brought 
me  no  peace. 

MAR.  I'll  bring  you  peace. 

PETER.  I  think  you  will.  (From  her.}  Oh,  but  it's 
madness,  madness,  Margaret.  What  are  we  thinking  of  ? 

MAR.   Our  happiness. 

PETER.  Yes,  for  a  moment  we've  been  happy  fools. 
Now  I'm  awake. 

MAR.  And  so  ? 


92  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [iv 

PETER.   And  so  good-bye. 

MAR.  Indeed  ? 

PETER.  Oh,  would  to  God,  it  needn't  be.  But  here  I 
am,  an  outcast,  and 

MAR.  (quickly).   No  phrases,  Peter. 

PETER.  I'm  a  man  without  a  job,  Margaret.  I  can't 
keep  myself,  let  alone  anyone  else. 

MAR.   Have  you  tried  ? 

PETER.  I've  thought  of  ways.  Scraps  of  journalism, 
perhaps.  I  might  live  that  way  for  a  time.  I'm  a 
notorious  person.  They'll  take  my  stuff  until — my — my 
escapade's  forgotten.  Then  they'll  drop  me. 

MAR.  Excellent  reasons  for  not  being  a  journalist. 

PETER.  I'm  fit  for  nothing  else.  I  thought  I  had 
supporters,  friends  who'd  rally  round  when  the  official 
party  sent  me  to  the  rightabout.  I've  waited  there  a 
week.  I  have  no  friends. 

MAR.  You  don't  need  friends.  You  want  an  employer, 
and  I  thought  you  were  a  skilled  mechanic. 

PETER.  Yes.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  did  have  a  vague 
idea  of  going  in  for  aeroplanes. 

MAR.   Oh,  Peter,  Peter,  still  the  high  flights  ! 

PETER  (earnestly).  There's  money  in  it,  Margaret. 

MAR.  For  the  mechanic  ? 

PETER.  I  shouldn't  be  a  mechanic  long.  A  man  of 
original  mind  like  me  is  bound  to  be  ahead  of  the  crowd. 
I've  to  keep  moving  fast.  I  can't  wait  for  the  mob  to 
catch  me  up.  Yes,  there's  something  in  that  aeroplane 
idea. 

MAR.  There  is.  Fame.  Applause.  Incense  Every- 
thing that  ruined  you  before. 

PETER.   You  can't  be  famous  without  risk. 

MAR.   Why  be  famous  ? 

PETER.  That's  your  doing.  You  wakened  my  ambi- 
tions. They're  there  now,  ineradically  fixed,  and  if 
they  weren't  there  for  myself,  they  would  be  there  for 
you. 


iv]  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  93 

MAR.  For  me  ?  I  don't  want  them,  Peter.  Fight 
them  down.  Be  humble. 

PETER.   I'm  not  built  for  humility. 

MAR.  Drop  your  ambition,  Peter.  You  will  feel  like 
Christian  when  he  lost  his  pack. 

PETER.   What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? 

MAR.   There  is  always  room  for  you  at  your  old  place. 

PETER.  Back  to  the  mechanic's  bench.  In  Midlandton, 
where  everybody  knows  !  That's  humble  pie  with  a 
vengeance. 

MAR.   A  new  beginning,  Peter. 

PETER.   There's  no  such  thing.    In  life,  we  pay. 

MAR.   We'll  pay  together  then. 

PETER.   I  can't  go  back. 

MAR.  A  man  can  do  things  for  his  woman,  Peter,  when 
he  can't  do  them  for  himself. 

PETER.   You  want  me  to  go  back  ? 

MAR.   Yes,  Peter,  back  to  the  starting-place. 

PETER.   It's  a  bitter  pill. 

MAR.  But  won't  you  swallow  it — for  me  ?  For  my 
sake,  Peter. 

PETER.  Yes,  Margaret,  you've  won.  I'll  go  back  if 
they'll  have  me. 

MAR.   Thank  you,  Peter. 

PETER.  Don't  thank  me,  dear.    It's 

MAR.  Why  not  ?  It  means  I'm  going  to  have  my 
heart's  desire. 

PETER.   What's  that  ? 

MAR.   Just  you. 

PETER.  Margaret ! 

MAR.  Yes,  Peter. 

PETER.  Are  you  happy  ? 

MAR.  Yes. 

PETER.  Yes  ?  Only  yes  ?  When  I'm  almost  afraid  to 
be  so  happy,  when 

MAR.  Yes,  Peter,  when  you  are  down,  you  are  very, 
very  down,  and  when  you're  up  you  are  up 


94  GARSIDE'S   CAREER  [rv 

PETER.    That's  the  way  with  all  geniuses Oh,  I 

forgot.    I'm  not  a 

MAR.  Never  mind.  You're  genius  enough  for  me. 
Only,  we'll  stop  telling  other  people  about  it,  eh,  Peter  ? 
Now  let's  go  to  your  mother. 

[They  move  n.  together. 

CURTAIN. 


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PLYMOUTH 


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